Pryor Michael

Heart of Gold

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

About the Author

Heart of Gold

THE SECOND VOLUME OF

The Laws of Magic

MICHAEL

PRYOR

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Laws of Magic 2: Heart of Gold

ePub ISBN 9781864714760

Kindle ISBN 9781864717358

A Random House book

Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd

Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060

www.randomhouse.com.au

First published by Random House Australia in 2007

This edition first published in 2010

Copyright © Michael Pryor 2007

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.

Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/offices.

National Library of Australia

Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

Author: Pryor, Michael

Title: Heart of gold / Michael Pryor

ISBN: 978 1 86471 863 8 (pbk.)

Series: Pryor, Michael. Laws of magic; 2

Target audience: For secondary school age

Dewey number: A823.3

Cover illustration by Jeremy Reston

Cover design by www.blacksheep-uk.com

Internal design by Mathematics

For all teachers, everywhere.

One

AUBREY FITZWILLIAM KNEW THAT CRISIS WAS another word for opportunity. He simply wished that he saw more of the latter and less of the former.

AUBREY GRIMACED, TIGHTENED THE LAST VALVE ASSEMBLY and closed the ornithopter's cowling. He stretched, wincing, just as his friend George Doyle spoke up. 'Aubrey?'

'Hmm?'

'What's bright orange and floats through clouds?'

'Riddling, George? Really, you need to find something more worthwhile to do.'

'It's not a riddle, old man. It's what I'm looking at right now.'

With mechanical knowledge an important part of the ornithopter pilot's exam, Aubrey had worked hard on familiarising himself with every aspect of the complicated machine – while George spent much of the evening lounging on a bench, propped on one elbow and reading a newspaper. Now, he was peering out of the window of the workshop at the night sky. Aubrey wiped his greasy hands on a rag and strolled to see what had caught his friend's attention. 'Where?'

A pearly-grey blanket of cloud hung over Finley Moor Airfield and stretched to the south, where it reflected the many lights of Trinovant, the heart of the Albion Empire. Thunder growled nearby.

'There. That glow.' George pointed to the north-east, past the control tower – dark at this time of night – and the dirigible mooring masts. Four long, grey cigar shapes bobbed at rest. They were the pride of the Albion airship fleet, the eight-hundred-foot-long Imperial class, the most advanced lighter-than-air craft in the world.

The orange light was coming from something in the clouds – something large. Aubrey frowned, trying to make out what it was, then it burst through and he froze, all flippancy drying up instantly. A flaming dirigible stagered across the sky, its nose angling downward as it lost lift, sagging in the middle. Fire had enveloped the front third of the sleek airship, puncturing the internal gasbags. Flames lit up the airfield in a ghastly hell-light.

Aubrey's tiredness vanished. He flung the greasy rag aside and sprinted out of the hangar, a thousand decisions competing for his attention. He threw open the door of the nearest ornithopter. It was a Falcon model, not his favourite, but it was a six-seater, with a largish cargo bay, and that was what he wanted.

George caught up and seized his arm. 'What are you doing, old man?'

'That's a Gallian airship, some sort of experimental model. The crew members are going to die up there unless we do something.'

'You've never done a night flight before,' George pointed out.

I know, Aubrey thought. And I flew solo for the first time just two days ago. 'How hard can night flying be?' Aubrey vaulted into the pilot's seat. 'It's the same sky, after all.'

'It's not the sky I'm worried about.' George squeezed his broad-shouldered frame into the co-pilot seat. 'It's the ground that's waiting for us if you make a mistake.' He shook his head. 'This is madness. Shouldn't we send for help?'

'No time. Those poor souls don't have long.' Aubrey ran through his pre-flight checklist, decided it would take too long in the circumstances, then pulled the ignition lever. The engine coughed into life and he seized the controls.

The great metal wings creaked and stretched. Aubrey used the foot pedals and the landing gear whirred into action. He felt the bird-like craft settle, tense, and then give a stomach-dropping thrust as its legs kicked upwards, hurling the machine into the air. The wings twisted and beat, noisily driving upwards.

Aubrey forced the craft to climb almost vertically. He flicked his black hair as it fell in his eyes. 'Where is it?' he shouted over the crashing of the metal wings.

'Left!' George shouted back. 'Port, I mean! Over there, past the sewage works!' He pointed. Aubrey forced the ornithopter around until the dirigible came into view overhead.

He pulled back on the wheel with all his strength, and sent the machine into a testing climb. When he'd gained enough altitude, he levelled off and swept toward the crippled airship.

A huge gout of fire erupted from the nose of the dirigible. Aubrey gritted his teeth and wrenched at the controls. George shouted as a jet of flame reached for them, a wave of heat screaming like a flock of harpies. Their craft skated and heeled, the port wing canting while the starboard wing flailed wildly. His heart hammering, Aubrey held on, glad for the belt that kept him in his seat.

From the rear of the ornithopter came the shriek of struts protesting under strain. Aubrey held his breath and eased off the controls. The rending noise slowed, but then he heard the sharp pings of rivets giving up and popping loose. Immediately, metal crashed against metal, grinding horribly. Not a good sign, he thought. With little choice, he ignored it and concentrated on keeping the craft steady.

The Falcon was approaching the dirigible almost directly head-on. Aubrey banked to port and swooped along the vast flank of the airship. The Falcon bucked a little, but Aubrey anticipated and held the line.

The entire front half of the dirigible was ablaze. The smell of burning rubber was harsh in Aubrey's nostrils and he grimaced. He eased the Falcon toward a tight turn around the airship's stern, aiming to glide along the other side.

George shouted and grabbed his arm. The ornithopter, delicately responsive, dipped and shuddered. Aubrey had to strain the controls, adjusting wing pitch and attack, to right it again.

'Don't do that!' he shouted.

'Someone's still alive!'

Aubrey risked a glance as they rounded the tail. A stocky man in the uniform of the Gallian Dirigible Corps was in the rear observation cockpit, waving desperately.

'We'll come back for him.' Aubrey steered toward the bow, where the gondola clung to the belly of the dirigible.

The gondola was the long cabin where the captain controlled the airship. If Aubrey was able to come alongside, he might be able to get the ornithopter to hover long enough to take on survivors. The Falcon could carry four passengers, but Aubrey was sure he could cram in six, then shuttle back for the rest.

He licked lips that had suddenly gone dry, and began to edge the Falcon closer. He concentrated on keeping his hands steady.

A mighty groan came from the airship, followed by the sharp, bright noise of metal reaching the limit of its strength. Automatically, Aubrey sheered off and dropped away. Then he climbed, not wanting to get caught in the rain of debris falling from the crippled dirigible – struts, wire, shattered glass, burning fabric.

He glanced up and, to his horror, saw that the internal frame of the airship was collapsing. Tormented metal screamed and buckled. One of the motor units wrenched loose and fell, still whirring, to the ground far below. Then the entire gondola tore away. It tilted and hung for a moment, then it plummeted.

Immediately, the remnants of the dirigible lurched upwards, much lighter now. The clouds opened around it, then swallowed the flaming leviathan of the air.

Sickened, Aubrey closed his eyes, grieving for the lost crew. Brave souls, gone in an instant. He banged the instrument panel with a fist, cursing his failure to save them. Should he have gone for help as George suggested? Was he simply being too rash, too overreaching – again?

'What now?' George shouted.

Aubrey narrowed his eyes. He could still do something to help. 'The cockpit. The survivor.'

He scanned overhead and saw the remnants of the dirigible wallowing out of the clouds, shuddering like a whale in its death spasms. The remaining motor units were whining desperately, but the dirigible had begun its final plunge.

Aubrey realised his jaw was aching from the tension. George grunted, then swore as oil sprayed across the windscreen.

That's all I need, Aubrey thought numbly. He couldn't see a thing through the streaks and smears of black muck.

Doing his best to stay calm, he ran through the commonplace spells he'd memorised since he'd begun learning magic. He seized on one he'd used for practical jokes, an application of the Law of Attraction. The elements were straightforward, the duration easy to handle. Usually the spell was used to make things hard to separate – to humorous effect – but this time Aubrey inverted the spell. The oil fell away from the windscreen as if it couldn't bear to be near the glass.

The ornithopter reared, then dropped in the turbulent air caused by the burning dirigible. The flames had almost engulfed the entire airship and the heat beat on Aubrey's exposed skin. The ornithopter shuddered, then slipped sideways. He caught it with an upward wing beat, but the strain was causing the metal laminates on the fuselage to shred and peel. There was no natural way to bring the ornithopter close enough to perform a mid-air rescue.

It'll have to be magic, then.

George pointed. The tail of the airship had tipped upwards, like the stern of a sinking ship. The figure in the cockpit was pressed up against the glass.

Aubrey flinched as violet-white light flashed through the Falcon's cabin. Hard on its heels was an immense crack that made the ornithopter ring like a gong. Dazzled, with coloured specks dancing in front of his eyes, Aubrey groaned. As if they didn't have enough to contend with, the weather was closing in. The ornithopter quivered, as if it were a real bird caught in a storm.

A real bird.

Feverishly, Aubrey's mind seized on the comparison. The Law of Similarities came to him, the well-established components blazing across his mind, clear and sharp.

The ornithopter was like a bird. With an effort, and the properly constructed spell, he could make it more so.

He chanted the spell, dropping the values into the unfolding formula in the way that fitted best. He announced each element as crisply as he could while trying to hold the bucking craft steady.

'Hold on!' he barked to George. The interior of the ornithopter began to glow, but it was different from the dirigible's flames and the harsh glare of the lightning. Streaked with green and yellow, every surface began to shimmer, a spiky phosphorescence that reeked of magic. Aubrey's magical senses jangled in response.

Another boom and the ornithopter was again rocked by thunder. Aubrey wrestled controls that were growing increasingly sluggish and he dragged the craft around the nose of the dirigible.

George let out an oath as the substance of the ornithopter rippled. Wide-eyed, he clutched at the control panel, seeking something to hold onto, then jerked back as it flowed underneath his fingers. His face was rigid with terror as the machine shifted shape, threatening to dissolve and pitch them both into the ferocity of the storm.

Then they were no longer in the cabin of an ornithopter. Wind howled and plucked at them as they lay flat on the back of a giant metal bird.

'Hold on!' Aubrey shouted – unnecessarily – and scrabbled to grab something himself.

He grinned, excited even in the middle of all the tumult. The spell had worked. The ornithopter had been encouraged to assert its similarity to a real bird, to become more than a machine. Exposed to the elements, a long neck thrust out in front of them while a fan-like tail spread behind. Great brass wings feathered in the shifting turbulence. Aubrey could see that the glass of the windscreen had become the glinting eyes of the creature, while the hydraulic pipes and electrical wiring conduits had merged into the body of the bird, making tendons and muscles.

Aubrey looked down and gulped. The ground was a long way away. He narrowed his eyes against the whipping wind, the heat of the flames and the smoke of the stricken dirigible alongside them. His fingers dug into the metal feathers and he was thankful the bird's back was broad.

George stared at him and down at the metal bird, then grinned and gave a nod of approval. 'Don't worry! I'm not letting go!'

The metal bird clashed its way toward the observation cockpit. Aubrey urged it on.

The dirigible had finally given up the struggle. Huge rents ran across the metallic skin, exposing the interior fabric and ruined aluminium skeleton. A gasbag ripped free and, intact, shot up through the clouds. Deprived of this lift, the dirigible sank even more swiftly.

The metal bird slid sideways, then banked right in a turn that had both Aubrey and George scrambling to stop themselves sliding off its back. Just when Aubrey had jammed his left foot against what he suspected had once been a fuel line, the metal bird plummeted and his stomach tried to find its way out of his ears.

As the bird dived, it screeched, a wild clanging cry that joined the din of the thunderstorm and the burning dirigible.

Aubrey hung on, desperately, fingers whitening with effort. Suddenly the metal bird lunged and struck the observation cockpit with its talons. Aubrey cried out as the glass shattered and the crewman fell, flailing, through the air.

Aubrey hammered at the bird's metal skin, shouting wordless oaths of anger and disbelief. What had he done? Created a monster and loosed it on the world?

The metal bird folded its wings and dived after the falling Gallian, and Aubrey was forced to cling with both hands. He squinted and tried to think of a spell to stop the creature's madness.

Then Aubrey's grip was tested again. With a crack like a giant's whip, the bird thrust out its wings and stopped its dreadful descent. The jolt threw him aside and, for a desperate moment, he had nothing to hold onto. He slid, his back scraping on bolts and ridges, until his head hung over the bird's flank. Far below, the dark and hard ground beckoned. Above was the blazing immensity of the dirigible. Neither fate appealed to him. Of course, there now also existed the possibility of being pecked to death by a rampaging metal avian.

Another jolt sent him head first over the bird's flank, and he only stopped himself tumbling into the empty air by grabbing a feathered ridge. While his heart raced and fear turned his insides to ice, the world wheeled around below, a great, flat dish waiting to catch him.

Wind ripped at his clothes and gleefully tried to dislodge him. Desperately trying to think of a way out of his predicament, he saw the great talons of the metal bird a few feet below him. They were clutching the Gallian crewman. His uniform was scorched, his eyes were closed. Aubrey couldn't tell if he was breathing or not.

Aubrey's collar jerked and, for an awful instant, he thought he was about to fall. He looked up to see George grimacing and holding onto his jacket. With his friend's timely help, Aubrey managed to clamber up until he was again flat on the back of the bird, panting with exertion and exhilaration at his rescue. His fingers ached from clinging to his handholds, but he was alive!

He put his mouth close to George's ear. 'The Gallian! The bird has him! He's safe!'

'Like we are?' George shouted. Aubrey waved a hand. Safety, he now realised, was a relative thing.

Blinding white light peeled the sky apart and the metal bird was flung across the heavens. Its wings flapped in wild, jerky sweeps. Aubrey, blinked, dazzled and deafened, alarmed at the smell of hot metal and ozone. Through black spots that wandered in his vision, he looked over his shoulder to see that half the bird's tail was missing – melted, with black charred streaks.

It had been struck by lightning.

The creature almost tumbled, then righted itself and began a descent that was a combination of vertigoinducing drops and a controlled tight spiral. Aubrey peered over the side. The flames of the still-descending dirigible reflected in the ponds of the sewage treatment works bordering the airfield.

Their descent continued to slow. Aubrey cheered on the plucky bird, but the rasping tickle that signalled the presence of magic made him alert. The feathers beneath his fingers rippled and flowed, rearranging themselves, shifting shape. The creature heaved, plunging a little, then Aubrey was in the battered cabin of the ornithopter again. The windscreen was cracked and the smell of scorched metal was thick in the enclosed space. Aubrey had time to see that George was next to him and that the unconscious Gallian airman was in the seat behind. George was hastily strapping on his seat belt and Aubrey managed to do the same before the ornithopter splashed into the sewage works.

Aubrey was thrown forward and hit his head on the steering column. He jerked back, half-stunned, as water cascaded on the cabin roof. He gasped for air and was rewarded by the rich fragrance of the settling ponds. Through the window he saw, in the distance, the tattered remains of the dirigible sinking with relative dignity into the swampy morass. A cloud of steam and smoke rose to the heavens.

A dense, ponderous feeling settled on Aubrey's shoulders, making them sag. It took him some time to identify it as relief. Then he spent a moment wondering about the flawed spell, and how he could have made the ornithopter's change last longer, but he gave up, pleased that such a quickly cobbled-together effort had worked at all.

George coughed and cleared his throat. 'Good landing.'

'What?'

'WingCo Jeffries said any landing you walk away from is a good landing.' George peered out of the window. 'Or in our case, swim away from.'

'Oh.'

The ornithopter wobbled, slipped, paused and then began to sink.

Aubrey shrugged. Just when things couldn't get any worse, they did. He glanced over his shoulder to see that the Gallian was still unconscious, but breathing. He was sprawled across the back seats like a rag doll.

Aubrey rubbed his forehead. He felt weary to the bone. The magical exertion had drained him and he knew he'd pay for it later. 'You know, George, I was just wondering why you jumped into the ornithopter with me. What were you going to do? You don't know the first thing about flying.'

'Just habit, old man. You go off on a hare-brained expedition, I tag along to try to stop you from killing yourself. Or, at least, to minimise the damage to innocent bystanders. It's a hobby, I suppose.'

'Couldn't you have taken up stamp collecting?'

'Allergic to glue, old man. You know that.'

Aubrey was silent for a time and watched the discoloured water rise up the windows. Then the ornithopter bumped and stopped sinking. Nearby, frogs started croaking.

'George?'

'Mmm?'

'You remember that holiday I said we should take after the examinations?'

'Of course.'

'I think now could be a good time to take it.'

Two

IN THE CHARTER ROOM OF THE PALACE, SIR ARTHUR Ross, head of the Albion airship fleet, sat near the head of the long table and scowled. In the seat opposite, Melville Taylor – the new Minister for Defence – fumbled with his glasses and gazed mildly at the ceiling. Both men had a brace of functionaries with them to hold papers and to remind everyone how important they were.

Crown Prince Albert sat alone in the middle of the table. He had a small leather notebook open in front of him. He held a pencil, ready to write.

Aubrey was near the far end of the table. Still exhausted from his magical exertions, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and did his best to appear as if he belonged there.

The Minister for Defence, a gnarled old man with remarkably blue eyes, cleared his throat and began to read from the Special Services official account of the Gallian airship disaster.

Ten minutes later, Prince Albert rapped on the table. 'Mr Taylor?'

The Minister raised his head. 'Your highness?'

'We have all read the report. I don't think there is any need to read it to us again.'

Sir Arthur nodded, and jutted forward his magnificently whiskered chin. 'I fully agree.'

'Is there anything else that you wish the King to know?' Prince Albert said.

Sir Arthur and Mr Taylor frowned at each other. 'It was no accident,' Sir Arthur finally said. Mr Taylor harrumphed, but didn't contradict him. 'The Gallian dirigible was brought down by sabotage.'

'I see,' Prince Albert said.

Aubrey straightened at this news. Interesting, he thought, and only realised that he'd made some sort of noise when Prince Albert glanced at him. They shared a look that Aubrey knew meant that the prince would want to discuss this matter with him later.

Extremely interesting, Aubrey thought, and settled back in his chair.

'The dirigible was a special experimental model. The Gallians sent it on a goodwill flight,' Sir Arthur added.

'To cement Albion–Gallian relations,' Mr Taylor put in. 'A show of support for the treaty, as it were.'

'Ah. Is Prime Minister Giraud feeling political pressure?' Prince Albert asked.

'The Gallian government is not in a strong position,' Mr Taylor said. 'There is considerable unrest across the country.'

'We must do what we can. Gallia is important to Albion.' The Prince stood, signalling the end of the meeting.

After the Minister, Sir Arthur and the horde of functionaries filed out – with a minor standoff over precedence through the door – Aubrey shrugged. 'What do you make of it, Bertie?'

'Hmm? 'The Prince blinked. 'Sorry, Aubrey, I was miles away.' He rubbed his hands together slowly. 'Thanks for coming at such short notice, by the way. Defence said His Majesty needed to be informed about this dirigible incident. That's when I decided I needed you here. Second opinion and all that.'

Aubrey smiled and nodded. He was accustomed to acting as a royal sounding board, having grown up close to the Prince. His cousin Bertie had few people he could be frank with, and Aubrey felt privileged to be one of them.

'Ah. And how is the King?' he asked.

The Prince sighed. 'Father has had another turn, I'm afraid. He's quite unwell.'

'So you're standing in for him. Again.' Aubrey chose his words carefully. 'Are you enjoying this role?'

Bertie looked thoughtful. 'It's not a matter of enjoyment. It must be done, that's all.'

'But wouldn't you rather be doing something else?'

'That doesn't enter into it, I'm afraid.'

Aubrey knew that his old friend was prepared to put duty above his personal desires. Aubrey had no doubt that Bertie was going to be a good king, but he often wondered what else he could have been. He was only a year older than Aubrey's seventeen, but in some ways he seemed to have skipped young adulthood and gone straight to serious middle age.

'The dirigible incident,' Aubrey prompted.

'Mmm. What can you tell me?'

Aubrey shrugged. 'I'm assuming you read the report that Special Services made me write. I don't know what else to add.'

'You didn't leave anything out? I've known you to be careful when recounting your adventures.'

'Careful. I don't mind that as a description. It's so much better than "outrageously choosy".' Aubrey shook his head. 'No. I didn't hold anything back, this time.'

The Prince nodded. 'The situation on the Continent is a worry.'

'Do you think Holmland was responsible for the sabotage?'

'It's the obvious conclusion. They would have the most to gain.' Prince Albert glanced at Aubrey. 'Do you have a moment, Aubrey? I have something else I'd like to discuss with you.'

The Prince took Aubrey to a study. The south-facing room was light and airy; large windows overlooked a small garden, where a bed of hyacinths and jonquils grew against the red brick wall that was the rear end of the palace motorcar stable.

Prince Albert sat in a plush velvet chair, put his chin on his fist and studied this scene for a while. Comfortable on a sofa, Aubrey waited patiently.

'Genealogy, Aubrey,' the Prince said after some time. 'It's an obsession in our family. It's an obsession in all royal families.'

'I suppose it would be. Lineage, lines of succession and all that.'

'Exactly. In many ways, it defines who we are. My father is king because his father was king before him. I will become king for the same reason.'

Aubrey didn't say anything. He knew Bertie well enough to understand that this statement of the obvious was leading up to something.

'My father is unwell,' the Prince said. 'And his condition is getting worse.'

Aubrey had some sympathy for the King's worsening madness, given his own trouble with a deteriorating condition. 'The doctors?'

'They do what they can. Unfortunately, his body is declining as well as his mind.'

'Ah. That's news.'

'We try to keep it to ourselves. It's bad enough when the King becomes an object of derision. I don't want him to become an object of scorn.'

'Not so,' Aubrey countered. 'He may have been mocked in the past, but now the public is sympathetic, toward both him and you. There's an enormous amount of affection for the royal family.'

A smile touched the habitually serious features of the Crown Prince. 'You know the mood of the people so well, Aubrey? The world of politics is beckoning, it would seem.'

'My father is Prime Minister. How could I be unaware of what's being said?'

I think that was a reasonable deflection, Aubrey thought. Straight to the fine leg boundary for four runs.

Bertie sat back. 'You're going to Lutetia soon, I hear.'

'A holiday. A rest. A chance for some gloriously uneventful days in a charming city.'

'Aubrey Fitzwilliam and uneventful days? From what I see, events have a habit of following you. Or do you instigate events to keep yourself entertained?'

Aubrey spread his hands. 'I intend to enjoy myself, that's all.'

'Very good.' The Prince nodded, as if reaching a decision. 'Aubrey, you're one of the people I trust most. You know that, don't you?'

'What is this, Bertie? You sound ominous.'

'I have a task for you, while you're in Lutetia. If you're willing.'

'Of course.'

'It is for me, but in the long run it may also prove to be for Albion.'

'Out with it.'

Prince Albert clasped his hands in front of him. 'My father's condition is likely to be hereditary. I may be susceptible to it myself. If I am, I need to know.'

'Ah.' Aubrey grimaced. 'I didn't know that. I'm sorry to hear it, Bertie. Bad show.'

The Prince nodded. For an instant, he looked pained, but he gathered himself. 'Thank you, Aubrey. I appreciate your concern.'

'And I understand the sudden importance of genealogy,' Aubrey said.

'Exactly. The madness does not strike every generation. My grandfather and his brothers were free of it. But where does it fall? How often? That's what I need to find out.'

'And you think I can do that in Lutetia?'

'My family has branches from all over the Continent. One significant twig goes back to Lutetia in the tenth century.'

Aubrey groaned at the awful pun, and the Prince looked pleased. 'That's appalling, Bertie. One day your fondness for puns is going to bring you undone.'

The Prince shrugged. 'A small weakness.'

'Lutetia. The tenth century. You're talking about the Conquest.'

'I attribute my stylishness to my Gallian blood,' the Prince said. He smiled wryly. 'But the family tree is a little murky at times.'

'As all great family trees are.'

'Indeed. There is the official story, and then there is the unofficial story. And that's where my interest lies.'

Aubrey settled back in his chair. He grinned. 'I can see myself adding some tomb-spotting and graveyard rambles to my holiday itinerary.'

'Would you, Aubrey? If it doesn't inconvenience you too much.'

'I'd be happy to do it.'

'I have some papers, some suggestions for you. You can pick them up on your way out.' The Prince stood and shook Aubrey's hand. 'This means a great deal to Albion.'

'I'd do it for you, Bertie, let alone the nation.'

'To Maidstone, sir?'

Aubrey blinked. Stubbs, the driver, was looking at him in the rear vision mirror. Outside the car, two guardsmen held the palace gates open. 'No, Stubbs, let's not go home yet. I need to go to St Margaret's Hospital.'

'Right you are, sir.'

The matron at hospital reception glared at him when he fronted her desk. Aubrey didn't take it personally. It was probably her customary attitude. 'Captain Saltin is not to be disturbed,' she said after he explained the reason for his visit. 'He is still recovering from that awful dirigible crash.'

'I won't be long,' Aubrey said. 'I'd just like to chat with him.'

'He can chat when he's well again.'

'And when will that be?'

'I can't say.'

'Then who can say?'

'The doctors.'

'Can I talk with the doctors then?'

'No. They're busy.'

Aubrey was about to give up in the face of such a formidable defence when a black-uniformed figure marched down the stairs and through the reception area. Aubrey waved and went after him. 'Captain Tallis!'

The Special Services chief stopped. 'Ah, Fitzwilliam,' he said suspiciously. 'What are you doing here?'

'I thought I'd see how our Gallian airman is.' He nodded toward the matron at the reception window. She was following their conversation and frowning. 'But I have substantial impediment.'

'Why didn't you tell her that your father is Prime Minister? That should do the trick.'

Aubrey smiled back at him. That's the last thing I'd do, he thought. If I can't manage by myself, I won't manage at all. 'I thought you could help me. You're providing a guard for Captain Saltin?'

Captain Tallis studied him. Aubrey knew that the Special Services operative didn't have a high regard for him, summing him up as a rich and privileged busybody. While Aubrey couldn't do much about the rich and privileged part of that judgement, he thought that 'busybody' was going too far. 'Albion wouldn't want anything to happen to one of our allies,' Tallis said. 'We want him to be safe.'

'I won't be long,' Aubrey said. 'And I guarantee I won't harm him.'

Tallis grunted and marched to the reception desk. 'He's with me,' he said to the matron.

'Is he really the Prime Minister's son?' she asked, eyes narrowed.

'Oh yes,' Tallis said. 'He has a lot to live up to, doesn't he?'

Aubrey winced. You don't have to tell me that, he thought.

As they mounted the stairs, Tallis glanced at him. 'Have you seen that Miss Hepworth at all lately?'

Aubrey nearly tripped at the unexpectedness of the question, but steadied himself on the handrail. 'Not often. She's been spending time with my mother, though, at the Albion Museum. She's become her assistant, helping with classifying specimens.'

'She hasn't mentioned my offer, then?'

Aubrey stared at him. 'What offer?'

'I thought you knew. After that business with the Sorcerer Royal, I asked if she'd considered a career in the service.' He paused at the landing. 'Competent young lady. Without her, Dr Tremaine's plans to kill the King and throw us into war with Holmland might have succeeded.'

Aubrey felt both irritated and pleased. Irritated because Tallis seemed determined to overlook Aubrey's part in preventing Dr Tremaine's mad plans, but pleased that the Special Services chief recognised Caroline's remarkable talents. Expert markswoman, ornithopter pilot and naturalist, as well as exceptionally talented at hand-to-hand combat, languages and dancing – he could see why Tallis thought she would be an asset.

The Special Services operative outside the ward saluted Captain Tallis and studied Aubrey closely. Inside, the sole occupant sat up in his bed and inspected them quizzically.

'Saltin,' Tallis said. 'This is Mr Aubrey Fitzwilliam. He was the one who saved you.'

'Fitzwilliam!' Captain Saltin said in accented Albionish. 'They told me what you did! I owe you my life! I am in your debt, forever!'

The Gallian had lost his eyebrows in the blaze, but Aubrey noticed they were already starting to grow back, thick and black to match his moustache. 'I'm glad to see you're well.'

'Well? I am alive, a second life you've given to me. Why would I not be well?' Saltin beamed. 'When I return to my home, I will tell my wife that we will name our firstborn child after you. The entire town of Chrétien will know of your deeds, then the province of Marchmaine, then the whole of Gallia!'

Aubrey blushed. 'You don't have to do that.'

Saltin went to jump out of his bed, but Tallis restrained him. 'But I want to,' the Gallian said. 'Aubrey Saltin will carry your name into the future!'

'How long have you been in the Dirigible Corps?' Aubrey asked him, eager to change the subject.

Half an hour later, his head was spinning with details of Gallia's dirigible program. It was only the appearance of worried nurses that put an end to the airman's passionate descriptions of water-ballast contingencies and keel-bracing materials.

Leaving, Aubrey waved from the door. 'Visit me in Gallia,' Saltin called from his bed. The nurse at his side tried to thrust a thermometer into his mouth. 'Promise me you will.'

'I may take you up on that,' Aubrey said, laughing. 'Good luck with the recovery.'

Captain Tallis escorted Aubrey out of the hospital. 'Keep yourself out of trouble, Fitzwilliam, there's a good chap,' he said at the front door. A bus rumbled past advertising Evans Cocoa. 'Leave things to us.'

The Oakleigh-Nash rolled up. Stubbs hurried to open the door for Aubrey. 'Thank you, Captain Tallis. I always do my best to stay out of trouble.'

Sitting on the leather seat, Aubrey hummed a little. The morning had given him much to think about. He tapped on the glass that divided the passenger compartment from the driver. Stubbs slid back a pane. 'Sir?'

'Let's go home through Barley Park, shall we, Stubbs?'

'Barley Park it is.'

The pane slid back and Aubrey was left with his ruminations. Weariness rolled over him and he gazed out of the window as the Oakleigh-Nash made its way through Barley Park. Strollers enjoyed the sun, with a few kite flyers doing their best to catch the light breeze. The renowned avenue of elms stretched out in front of them.

Like soldiers on parade, Aubrey thought, and the notion made him think of the international situation, which, in turn, made him glum because Holmland was at it again. Its navy manoeuvres off the coast of Volnya were causing great unrest on the Continent. Meanwhile, the fractious states of the Goltan Peninsula were a hotbed of gossip and rumour that Holmland was watching with delight.

All of this military build-up meant that every nation on the Continent was nervous. Strong allies were the best way to keep Holmland away, which explained the desire of Gallia to cement relations with Albion – one demonstration of which was the maiden flight of the experimental dirigible. Brave, plucky, stylish Gallia, Albion's friend and bulwark on the Continent.

Aubrey smiled. A perfect place for a holiday.

As the car swung toward the park gates, Aubrey saw a number of soldiers ambling arm in arm with pretty girls. He had to admit, their uniforms did look dashing.

The pretty girls made him think of Caroline.

Formidably competent. Utterly presentable. Endlessly bewildering. Aubrey sat back in the vast leather seat and spent some time composing appropriate epithets. The constantly surprising Caroline Hepworth. The agreeably fascinating Caroline Hepworth. Caroline of the unruly hair. The unruffled poise. The face that, according to George, was too symmetrical. Aubrey pictured her in a white coat, studying a stuffed bird of paradise, trying to decide if it was a Lesser Superb Fantail or a Greater Superb Fantail or another species altogether, and he enjoyed the image.

Aubrey had come to know her no better since she'd helped to thwart the diabolical plans of Dr Tremaine, the one-time Sorcerer Royal. She had maintained an aloof attitude toward him that was alternately endearing and frustrating. Aubrey was not accustomed to having a goal that he couldn't attain, but Caroline Hepworth was proving to be more than a challenge.

Aubrey lapsed into brooding, mulling over his various failings. Most of which he was sure that Caroline had itemised, but the greatest he'd kept from everyone but George: he was dead. Technically, at least.

It had been his overconfidence that had led him to experiment with death magic. When it went awry, his soul was wrenched from his body and dragged towards the portal that opened onto the true death. It was only through improvisation and quick thinking that he'd reunited his body and soul, but the solution had proved to be temporary. Magical exertion, such as saving the Gallian airman, left him weak and exhausted. Since that massive expenditure of effort, he'd found it hard to sleep – which only added to his fatigue.

Through experience and necessity, he'd learned how to hide such effects, but this drained him even more.

The streets of Fielding Cross were quiet. It was an exclusive neighbourhood of elegant sandstone row houses, and a few other residences that were set in lavish gardens, well back from the streets. Stubbs waited for the uniformed guardsman to open the gates and then he steered the Oakleigh-Nash into Maidstone.

Aubrey was still unaccustomed to the family home being guarded; the presence of soldiers was a constant reminder that his father was now PM and that certain proprieties must be observed.

He was barely through the door, and had hardly given his hat to Harris, the butler, when Duchess Maria appeared.

'Grandmother,' he said, but only after examining the word for its neutrality. He thought it safe enough.

'Aubrey. Good. I need to see you immediately.'

She glided off. Aubrey glanced at Harris, who managed to look impassive and sympathetic at the same time. 'The library, I'd say, young sir.'

Aubrey went straight to the library but, somehow, his grandmother was there well before him. She was seated in an enormous wing-backed chair facing the door, her customary position. Aubrey entered warily, but when she offered her cheek, hope rose in him that this was not going to be one of her usual interrogations.

Lady Maria was Aubrey's father's mother. She was tiny, eighty years old, and she looked as if she could last another eighty. Her hair was silver, but her face had only traces of wrinkles. Her eyes were a clear, startling green. She was the custodian of all things Fitzwilliam, particularly reputation and honour, and she devoted all her energies to maintaining the family name, through her vast network of correspondents.

'You're going on a holiday.' Lady Maria eschewed questions, favouring a more direct approach. Aubrey had often felt that the Albion army had been deprived of a great general by the simple fact of her being born female.

'I am, Grandmother. University places won't be offered for some time yet, and it's been a hectic year.'

'Yes. I believe "hectic" to be an accurate description, if inadequate.'

'Quite. So a little travel, some idleness, would seem to be in order.'

'Lutetia, I take it. The City of Love.'

Aubrey managed to stop himself before he gaped. 'I beg your pardon?'

'It's where I met your late grandfather. My papa was attending the same peace conference that your grandfather was. The one that resulted in the Treaty of St Anne.'

'Between Gallia and Albion?'

'Exactly. I was afraid of him at first, with his dreadful reputation, but it didn't take long before we found out we shared an interest in roses. He was dashing. A romantic figure.'

A romantic figure? Aubrey bit down on an expression of utter disbelief that would have echoed around the library if he hadn't. In polite circles, his grandfather was still referred to as the Steel Duke. In less polite circles – including on the Continent – he was called the Bloody Duke, and the name was usually followed by spitting on the floor. Aubrey found it difficult to imagine this legendary soldier and diplomat as a romantic figure interested in roses.

He strove for neutrality again, puzzled as to why his grandmother was telling him this. 'I see.'

She darted a glance at him. 'I wonder if you do.'

He smiled, but remained silent.

'I have a task for you while you're in Lutetia,' she continued, rather more briskly. 'One of my correspondents has let me know that a certain Alphonse Caron has some items that belong to me. I would like them back.'

'He stole them?'

'He came into possession of them.'

'You haven't asked the police to get them for you?'

She sniffed. 'Gallian police? You may as well ask a cat to knit a jumper for you. Lovely uniforms, appalling attention to detail.'

Aubrey had an uncomfortable feeling about this request. 'And what items am I looking for?'

Duchess Maria glared at him for a moment, just for practice. 'Some letters. From your grandfather to me.'

Some time later, Aubrey left the library, his mind awhirl with the City of Love and correspondence between his grandmother and grandfather. It was a whole world he'd never considered.

He was on his way to the kitchen to see if he could find something to eat when the door to the front drawing room opened. His mother stood there appraising him. 'Aubrey. At last. I need to see you.'

LADY ROSE'S DRAWING ROOM WAS AN ECLECTIC RIOT. Originally, it had been an unimaginative place with sturdy furniture fit for a battleship. Lately, however, it had been garnished with gaudy and exotic objects from Lady Fitzwilliam's many overseas expeditions. Masks, beads, dried tropical flowers and statuettes had gradually taken over the room, much as jungle creepers would drape themselves over any available tree.

Lady Rose entered, frowning. When she reached what had once been a mantelpiece but now was more like a sea-shell museum, she turned. 'Sit, Aubrey, sit.'

Aubrey looked around at the various heaps and mounds of bark paintings, carved gourds and alpaca wool rugs.

'Anywhere, anywhere. Push that grass skirt onto the floor.'

Aubrey did as he was told. His mother was obviously after something, for her booted foot tapped and her fingers drummed on the marble mantelpiece.

'I've lost my assistant,' Lady Rose said abruptly.

Aubrey considered this. 'Well, it was you who arranged Caroline's place at the University of Lutetia.'

'Yes, yes, and she well deserved it. Professor Lavoisier will teach her a great deal about modern taxonomy. A month spent with him will stand her in good stead for when she goes up to Greythorn.' She gnawed her lip. Aubrey sat back and admired the way his mother was so unselfconscious about her beauty. In an age where women of breeding spent inordinate hours primping, Lady Rose Fitzwilliam was capable of dazzling any gathering with her regal profile and her bright blue eyes – with no effort required.

'And you're going to Lutetia, quite coincidentally,' she said.

Aubrey smacked himself on the forehead and winced as he hit his bruise. 'You're right. Caroline will be there!'

'That was appalling, Aubrey. You'd be laughed off the stage with an effort like that. Or booed off, if the play was meant to be a comedy.'

Aubrey wondered whether he should protest his innocence in more strident terms, but he decided a flanking manoeuvre may be wiser. 'Is there anything I can do for you while I'm in Lutetia?'

'I'm glad you asked. I want you visit a certain Dr Romellier, an expert on the flightless birds of the islands of the southern ocean. He's produced a monograph that could shake the foundations of modern ornithology.'

Aubrey must have looked unimpressed. 'It may not sound momentous to you, Aubrey, but Dr Romellier has been working on this for forty years. It's his life's work and I want to show support for him.' She paused and chose her words carefully. 'He's somewhat of a recluse, you see.'

'Recluse.'

'While I've never met him, I know people who have. Some have called him difficult, some say he's just eccentric. Others have called him unpredictable.'

'And you want me to visit him.'

'You'll need to find him first. He's quite secretive about where he lives, but one of his letters, some time ago, let slip that he's close to the university. He complained, you see, about being woken every morning by the clock over the Theology Building when it starts ringing at six.'

'How important is this?'

'How important is your trip to Lutetia?' His mother smiled sweetly. 'I've been wondering, you see, about where I'm going to find a replacement assistant. I'd need someone young, someone who's currently at leisure, someone I can trust.'

'Dr Romellier.' Aubrey stood. 'Monograph. I'd be delighted to fetch it for you.'

'I'm glad, my dear. You always were a considerate one.' She studied him for a moment. 'And keep that heroic impulse in check while you're in Lutetia, won't you?'

'I'll do what I can. You know how it is.'

'I do.' She sighed. 'I married your father, didn't I?'

AUBREY HAD BARELY REACHED HIS ROOM WHEN GEORGE rushed in. 'I say, old man, Mother and Father have said I can go with you to Gallia.' He stopped dead in his tracks. 'What's wrong with you? You look as if you found five pounds but lost ten.'

'It was meant to be a holiday,' Aubrey said, throwing himself onto the red velvet settee. He covered his eyes with his hands. 'I need a holiday.'

George dropped into one of the armchairs. Absently, he prodded a large set of brass scales for weighing horses. 'Holidays are always good. Can't get enough of 'em, personally.'

'But this one's turning into a chore. Both Mother and Grandmother want me to spend time chasing up things for them. And Bertie wants me to find something for him, too.'

'What sort of things?'

'Oh.' Aubrey waved a hand. 'Things.'

'I see. Dashed inconsiderate of them. Things, eh? Can't be easy to find things in Lutetia, it being foreign and all.'

Aubrey opened an eye. 'Am I being precious, George?'

'Just a little.' George grinned. 'We're in Lutetia for a month. I'm sure you'll have time for your errands and after that we'll be able to devote ourselves to other pursuits.'

'Such as?'

George sat back in the chair and put his arms behind his head. 'I understand that the young ladies of Gallia are particularly striking.'

'George, you don't speak a word of Gallian.'

'You're not the only one who enjoys a challenge, old man. I aim to extend myself while I'm over there.'

Aubrey was prevented from investigating this claim further when Tilly, one of the maids, knocked on the door frame. 'Excuse me, Master Aubrey, but Sir Darius would like to see you in the conservatory.'

Aubrey stood. 'About things, no doubt.'

'Excuse me, sir?'

'Never mind, Tilly. George, would you like to go down to lunch? This could take some time.'

'Lunch?' George jumped to his feet. 'Capital idea.'

THE FACT THAT SIR DARIUS WAS IN THE CONSERVATORY was a sign, and not a terribly good one. Aubrey's father ignored the conservatory unless politics were getting too much for him. Then he sought the warm leafiness of the indoor garden as a refuge.

Aubrey found him in one of the huge bow-backed wicker chairs. It was enveloped in the bosom of a spreading fig tree. Sir Darius was sitting, an elegant figure in grey, hands steepled in front of his mouth, frowning in thought.

'Father.'

'Ah, Aubrey. I'm glad you're here. I have a task for you.'

The lines under his father's eyes reminded Aubrey that times were difficult for the Prime Minister of Albion. Despite the best efforts of his political foes, Sir Darius's Progressive Party had been successful at the recent election, but Aubrey had been wondering if this was a poisoned chalice. With the military build-up on the Continent, Albion was in a precarious position.

'What can I do for you, sir?' Aubrey desperately wanted to live up to the example set by his father, but it was difficult. While his father never seemed to judge, Aubrey was conscious that he had expectations – as did society. He knew that many, many people were waiting to see if Aubrey succeeded or failed, with the naysayers currently in the ascendant.

The entire plot to kill the King had never been made public as it had been deemed 'contrary to the national interest'. Aubrey had been dismayed by the efforts of the Special Services, which had spread rumour to the effect that Aubrey and some of his 'young friends' had been rather careless at the shooting weekend the Crown Prince had organised, endangering the royal personage. While Aubrey had to admit it was a clever layer of subterfuge, drawing attention away from the real events, he didn't like being thought of as one of the rich and idle layabouts of the upper class.

Sir Darius considered his answer. 'I need an observer. One who has the sort of skills you showed so recently in the affair with that scoundrel Dr Tremaine.'

With an effort, Aubrey didn't groan aloud. 'You want me to do something in Lutetia?'

His father raised an eyebrow. 'Yes. Since you're going there, I thought your unconventional approaches may be useful.'

Aubrey had a moment of pride at his father's use of the world 'unconventional' – taking it as a compliment – but he was still wary. His long-desired holiday was rapidly coming to resemble a shopping list – and, what's more, a shopping list for other people, which might leave little time to browse for himself.

He winced as his extended metaphor threatened to turn around and strangle him. 'I may be busy in Lutetia.'

His father sat back in his chair and smoothed his moustache. It was not a comforting gesture. 'I see. Would you like to tell me what is going to keep you so busy?'

Aubrey decided that he'd rather have most of his fingernails pulled out than tell his father that he was going to engineer as many chance encounters with Caroline Hepworth as possible. 'On the other hand, I do enjoy a challenge.'

He often found himself in situations like this with his family. Conversations escalated into battles of wits; greetings became opening salvos in longer engagements. In these exchanges, much was said, much was unsaid, and much was hidden behind careful facial expressions and gestures. A false word was all it took to find that a carefully planned goal was denied, or that one found oneself doing the complete opposite of what one intended, with no certain knowledge how things became turned around.

'Splendid,' Sir Darius said. 'Since this role follows from your exploits in saving our Gallian airman, I thought you may be interested.'

'Captain Saltin continues to recover, I hope?'

'Yes. Bruised, with some minor burns, but rather better off than he would have been if you hadn't come to his rescue.' Sir Darius gave a tired smile. 'It's extraordinary, really. For most of our history, Albion and Gallia have been at each other's throats, sworn enemies who've tried to conquer each other with quite impressive regularity. Now, seven hundred years of mistrust and suspicion are put aside and we embrace each other with open arms. At least, that's what we leaders say.'

Aubrey loved his father speaking openly to him, taking him into his confidence and allowing him to see the intricacies of the world. It made him even hungrier to achieve his ambitions. 'What does the Foreign Office say?'

'Ah. We have some internal disputes in the FO, some very different opinions about the level of threat posed by Holmland, and exactly what they're up to.' He ran a thumb along the armrest. 'I must do something about that.'

'And the Magisterium? What does it say?'

'And why would you think that the Magisterium would be involved in this?'

Aubrey shrugged. 'I thought you may have been approaching me because of my skills with magic. If magic was part of the dirigible disaster, then the Magisterium would need to be involved.'

Aubrey was always keen to hear anything about the Magisterium. It was the branch of law enforcement with the responsibility for magical matters throughout Albion. Under the leadership of the enigmatic Craddock, the Magisterium had become a feared force of highly skilled magicians with a reputation for ruthless investigation and action.

'You're right,' Sir Darius said. 'Craddock's operatives found that the explosions on the dirigible were caused by a magical device. Something about temporary elasticity.'

'The Law of Temporal Elasticity,' Aubrey said absently. He was already trying to imagine how such a law could be used. It would have to be a matter of constraining parameters of both time and distance . . .

After studying his son for a moment, Sir Darius continued. 'Craddock's view is that the device had the hallmarks of Holmland magic.'

Aubrey nodded. 'Clever. There are plenty of Gallians who still don't like us. Losing their airship over Albion would let them blame us for its loss. It would give them reason to abandon our alliance, which is just what Holmland wants.'

'Quite. The Gallian airman said that the dirigible left from the St Martin airfield on the north of Lutetia after the usual checks and inspections. He was mortified to hear about the device.'

'And while I'm in Gallia, you'd like me to see what I can find?'

'Unofficially, of course.' Sir Darius tugged at an earlobe, frowning. 'Our overseas Magisterium operatives are investigating, but I fear that their minds are too literal, and their chiefs are too concerned with settling scores within the Special Services overseas branch. I need someone independent.'

'I'd be happy to do it.' This was more to Aubrey's liking. His father was trusting him, explicitly, with a mission.

'Don't be so hasty. I've only told you part of the issue.' Sir Darius rubbed his hands together. 'Despite our public pronouncements, Gallia is in some turmoil. The alliance with Albion is being questioned within the Giraud government, fears about Holmland aggression are growing, and – just to make matters worse – there is a movement afoot in the Gallian province of Marchmaine to secede and form its own nation.' He scowled. 'They could have chosen a better time for such a thing.'

Aubrey pictured the map of the Continent. Marchmaine was directly across the channel from Albion. Rich and fertile, it stretched across the entire north of Gallia, sitting like a flat cap on top of the country. A fit hiker could land a boat on the shore of the channel and walk right across the gently rolling countryside until he reached the border of –

'Holmland,' Aubrey said. 'You think it's encouraging this movement.'

'Indeed. If Marchmaine becomes independent, it would have no alliance with Albion. And if one were particularly suspicious, one could imagine that the entire secessionist movement was a plot by Holmland to install pro-Holmland leaders in this new state, with the effect of providing Holmland with direct access to the channel.'

'And an easy crossing point for invading Albion. If it comes to war.'

'Quite.'

Aubrey and his father shared a look that said they both knew war was inevitable, that they wished it weren't so, and that they didn't want to mention it out loud just in case this made it happen – even though they both knew such superstitions were childish.

'Of course,' Sir Darius said, 'I don't have to tell you how stiff-necked the Gallians can get.'

'Ah. So that means that you'd like me to find the dirigible saboteurs and uncover the Holmland plot to instigate a sovereign state in Marchmaine, all without letting the Gallian authorities know what I'm up to?'

'More or less.'

'Delighted.'

His father held up a finger. 'One thing. Is George going with you?'

'Yes.'

'Good, good. I was going to insist that he go along. He seems to be useful for tempering some of your excesses. You can apprise him of the matters I've told you.'

WHEN HE LEFT THE CONSERVATORY, AUBREY FOUND IT HARD to stop smiling. The confidence his father showed was gratifying. Of course, combining this mission with requests from his mother, his grandmother and the heir to the throne was going to be a challenge, but Aubrey saw challenges as most people saw stepping stones – a way to get somewhere.

His smile fell from his face. He remembered his own, personal reason for journeying to Lutetia. His research into finding a solution for his unstable state had reached an impasse. He'd scoured libraries, corresponded with scholars (always in guarded, hypothetical terms) and conducted careful experiments testing new applications of magical laws, but nothing had yielded a complete remedy.

It was unsatisfactory, especially since he had the impression that his condition was deteriorating. It wasn't simply the tiredness he'd felt since exerting himself to save Saltin. He had a vague malaise, a deep-seated feeling that something wasn't right.

Ominously, he'd also lost his appetite. It had happened to him before. After the foolhardy experiment that had torn his soul loose from his body, he'd managed to reunite them – but not perfectly. The connection had deteriorated, and as it did, his bodily state grew worse. Tiredness and loss of appetite were warning signs, a reminder that his physical condition wasn't what it should be. In the past he'd been able to rest and steady himself, restoring his balance. Through spells and willpower he'd been able to keep the true death at bay – but it hovered, always there, waiting for him if his hold should slip.

Aubrey had heard that the Faculty of Magic at the University of Lutetia had fallen on hard times. It was apparently a shadow of its glory days, when it had attracted magicians from Albion and all over the Continent. He had hopes, though, that he could find someone there who could offer help or insight into the state of half-life, half-death in which he was trapped. He wanted a remedy, something more permanent than what he'd been able to cobble together.

AUBREY FOUND GEORGE ALONE IN THE FRONT DRAWING room. He was surrounded by peacock plumes nodding from a tall ochre vase and he was absorbed in reading the newspaper. Aubrey outlined the discussions he'd had, to George's growing amusement.

'I can't see what's so funny,' Aubrey concluded. 'I was looking forward to a relaxing holiday and now it looks as if it's going to be filled up with traipsing all over Lutetia for other people.'

'My thoughts exactly, old man. After this holiday, it seems you're going to need a holiday.'

Three

THE CAB STOPPED AND AUBREY PEERED UP AT WHAT would be their residence for their Lutetian holiday. George leaned over and stared. 'Looks as if we're not in Albion any more, old man.'

It was one of a row of impressive five-storey apartment buildings just north of the Sequane River, not far from the centre of the city. The narrow street and equally tall row of buildings on the other side made Aubrey feel as if he was at the bottom of a canyon – albeit an architecturally splendid one. Their holiday residence was on a crossroad, so the western windows overlooked the intersection below.

By the time Aubrey had alighted and joined George on the pavement, the driver had manhandled the trunks and boxes from the cab. It was done with some speed and not much care. Aubrey paid and offered a few Gallian pleasantries, but the driver didn't linger. He sprang back into his seat, urging his nag off with a curse and a flick of his whip.

George scowled. 'Ah, visit lovely Gallia and see the friendly folk mistreat their animals.'

George's large build disguised his soft-heartedness. Aubrey knew his friend loved animals and hated to see them being treated poorly. 'Let's see if we can't get some help with these things,' he suggested and used the bunch-of-grapes doorknocker.

The door opened. A tall, grey-haired woman stared down at them as if she'd been walking on the beach and found something unpleasant. Aubrey thought that she had once been beautiful, but had now passed through that into something more intriguing.

Aubrey doffed his hat and greeted her in his best Gallian. She nodded. 'Quite good, for an Albionite,' she said in perfect Albionish, 'but please use your own language. I like to practise.'

Aubrey nodded, a little disappointed. 'I'm Aubrey Fitzwilliam. This is George Doyle. Rooms have been organised for us?'

'Fitzwilliam. Doyle.' The grey-haired woman repeated the words slowly. Aubrey saw her studying them carefully: two young men, one slight and dark-eyed, one large, red-cheeked and sandy-haired. 'Yes. You have rooms.'

'Er, can you show us to them?' George asked. 'Although we could just stand here and admire the windows, if you point them out to us.'

Aubrey elbowed his friend. 'We'd like to deposit our things, if we could.'

'You'll need your keys.' She vanished, leaving them standing on the doorstep.

Aubrey looked at George. 'I suppose no-one is going to steal our luggage.'

'Not unless Lutetia is populated by roving gangs of weightlifters who've turned to a life of crime.' George sat on one of the trunks, took off his boater and fanned himself with it. 'Just to make sure, I'll wait here while you're getting the key.'

'No need,' Aubrey said, nodding toward the door.

The grey-haired woman had reappeared. 'I am Madame Calvert. This is my establishment. Here are your keys, and a letter for you, young Fitzwilliam.'

She handed them to Aubrey, then disappeared into the depths of the building, leaving the ornate doors open.

Aubrey opened the envelope, wondering who knew he'd be at this address. When he finished reading it, he chuckled and folded it away.

'Everything all right, old man?' George asked. 'We have the right place, don't we?'

'Yes.' Aubrey chuckled again. 'I think we're in for an interesting time, George. After all, according to my guidebook, Lutetia is the City of Art.'

'City of Art? I heard it was the City of Love.'

'I imagine you did hear that.' He held up the envelope. 'We have our first Lutetian invitation.'

'Excellent! An exhibition? Opening night at the opera?'

'Not exactly. Do you remember the Gallian airman we saved?'

'Of course I remember. Not likely to forget that jaunt for a while.'

'Well, Captain Saltin has asked us to visit him at the St Martin airfield. He wants to show us the Gallian dirigible fleet.'

'Do we have to go straightaway?'

'Not at all. It's an open invitation.'

'Good. I'm sure we'll be able to fit in a visit. In a week or two. Or next month, if we can't manage that.'

Aubrey grinned. 'Now, let's see about these trunks.'

Inside, they found themselves at the foot of a marble staircase. A rich red carpet affixed with brass stair-rods led up to a landing with a stained-glass window as extravagant as the front doors. On their left was an open door, while a short corridor led to another door on the far side of the stairs.

Aubrey was glad for George's muscles. Even so, it was a difficult task, hauling the trunks up the stairs. They paused on the first-floor landing to catch their breath, and then at each subsequent landing. When they reached the fourth floor, Aubrey sat on the stairs and panted. 'One more to go. I hope we have a wonderful view.'

'I'd swap a view for a ground-floor room,' George said. He'd draped himself over the polished wooden balustrade. 'If I want a view, I can look in a book.'

Aubrey stood, gingerly. He could feel his heart pounding from the exertion, but he thought it was under control. A dull headache lurked, but it was minor.

On this floor, there were three rooms – two on the left, one on the right. Aubrey frowned, wondering about the other tenants in Madame Calvert's residence. If he were correct, the room on the right would be larger. It would face north, too, so it may be useful as an artist's studio. He was sure Madame Calvert would approve of artists.

But Aubrey wasn't sure Madame Calvert would approve of the loud thumping noises coming from the apartment. Was the tenant a woodworker? Or perhaps a sculptor, hammering at a large piece of marble?

Aubrey took a step back when the door to the apartment began to shake.

The roof of his mouth started to itch, with rapidly rising intensity. Aubrey narrowed his eyes. Magic was afoot.

A deep, wrenching groan came from behind the door, followed by hammering that shook dust from the ceiling.

George stared. 'I hope we're not going to have noisy neighbours.'

'It sounds as if someone's in trouble.' The door handle rattled, as if whoever was within was unfamiliar with the functioning of latches.

'They need help.' George made for the door, but at that moment it was thrown open. George stopped, aghast, and gave a cry of horror.

Aubrey wondered what George had seen, then he, too, reeled back at the sight of what emerged. Almost of their own accord, his hands rose to ward it off.

It had once been a man. Late fifties, to judge from the sprinkling of grey in his wiry hair and beard. He was short and thickset, his rounded frame showing the signs of good living. He wore a fine dark-grey suit, but the dove-grey gloves on his hands were in tatters. Bloodied fingers protruded from the shreds. His face was lined and pale, but his eyes were completely vacant. No intelligence, no awareness at all lay behind them. He gazed directly ahead with an emptiness that was terrifying. A thin line of drool ran from the corner of his mouth.

The appalling figure groaned, hoarsely. His hands dangled, as if they were too heavy to lift. He staggered, dragging his feet, until he faced Aubrey. Then he groaned again.

Aubrey badly wanted to turn and run; his muscles trembled in readiness, but he steeled himself and put out a hand. 'Sir?' His heart hammered. 'What can we do for you?'

'In Gallian, old man,' George said. 'He can't understand you.'

Aubrey had grave doubts whether this was merely a language difficulty. He tried again in Gallian, but the man simply stood there, swaying.

'He's not blinking,' George pointed out.

Before Aubrey could respond, the groaning man lurched at them in a stiff-legged shamble. The groaning turned into a deep, chesty growl.

A cry came from the stairs. 'What is this?' Madame Calvert put a hand to her mouth. 'Monsieur Jordan, what are you doing?'

A shout wrenched Aubrey's attention back to see Monsieur Jordan lunge clumsily at George, who fended him off with a straight-armed push to the chest.

The groaning man's feet went out from under him. He fell back and hit his head on the tiled floor with a crack.

Aubrey hurried and crouched by his side. 'He's still breathing. Madame Calvert, can you fetch medical help? And the police?'

Madame Calvert didn't argue. She rushed off.

George knelt, his face anxious. 'Never had that happen before. A good push to the chest usually gives time to work out what to do next. He just toppled like a tree.'

'He had poor balance. And coordination.' Aubrey wondered what the symptoms for rabies were. Didn't they include groaning and twitching? 'Don't let him bite you.'

George shuddered. 'Last thing I'd want, old man.'

Aubrey looked over his shoulder through the open door. 'Let's take him into his apartment.'

Aubrey took Monsieur Jordan's feet while George hefted the other end. They shuffled into the apartment and lay the still-unconscious Gallian on a blue velvet chaise longue.

Aubrey straightened and took in the apartment. Monsieur Jordan was an artist, without doubt. A large north-facing window – curtainless – took up one wall, while carpet had been rolled back. The wooden floor was a riot of colourful streaks and splashes. One end of the room was a combined kitchen and sleeping area. The other was an arrangement of shelves, easels, two mismatched tables and a small dais. After assuring himself that Monsieur Jordan was comfortable and still breathing, Aubrey wandered over to the dais and the single chair on it. Behind the chair, the wall was draped with white cloth in quite deliberate folds.

Aubrey studied the length of the room. It didn't take much imagination to see Monsieur Jordan at an easel, studying his –

'Model,' Aubrey breathed and sat on the chair that he was sure had been used by an artist's model. But not recently. Monsieur Jordan was dressed in a good suit and tie, unsuitable wear for painting. And yet Aubrey had the impression that someone had been here recently, someone other than Monsieur Jordan. Above the warm, green bite of turpentine, he smelled an acrid chemical odour that was familiar. He concentrated, holding out his hands, palms down, and focusing his magical awareness.

His eyes opened wide. What have we here? he thought. The room had been the site of intense magic. Whatever the spell had been, it was powerful, but the user had been careless in delineating the variables of range and effect. He could sense traces of magical residue everywhere, like the splatters caused by dropping a rock in a pool of mud.

'Aubrey, stop that humming. I think he's waking up.'

George's summons brought Aubrey back to the chaise longue. The eyes that opened, however, didn't reassure him. Blank pits, absent of emotion, they were the eyes of the void. Aubrey looked into them and felt as if he was balanced on the brink of a precipice. The abyss beckoned.

Shaken, he turned away. His hands trembled and he clasped them together. 'Quickly,' he said, 'tie him up.'

'Aubrey? What's wrong with him?' George was pale, uncertain.

'I have no idea, but he's no better. We must restrain him.'

As if to underline Aubrey's words, Monsieur Jordan jerked and tried to sit up in the clumsiest way possible. He ended up folding in the middle like the covers of a book being slammed together. He flopped backward, bared his teeth, then began groaning while he struggled again. George pushed his shoulders down.

'Here.' Aubrey lunged for a large canvas drop cloth that had been flung on the floor. He picked it up with both arms. 'Wrap him up in this.'

They were helped by the inept flailings of Monsieur Jordan. Any half-coordinated child would have been able to escape as Aubrey and George fumbled and cursed their way to spreading the canvas, then winding it around the groaning, drooling artist.

By the time they were done, both Aubrey and George were panting. George rubbed at the side of his jaw where the back of Monsieur Jordan's head had caught him. 'I wish he'd stop that groaning,' he said.

The artist was on the floor, wrapped from neck to knee in the paint-daubed canvas, looking like a particularly colourful cocoon.

'Monsieur Jordan?'

Aubrey looked up to see a distressed Madame Calvert. Behind her were a police officer and a rotund man dressed in a blue suit. From the bag he was carrying, Aubrey was sure he was a doctor.

'He's awake, but . . .' Aubrey flapped a hand. 'Doctor, I think you'll need to look at him.'

Madame Calvert translated and the doctor started toward the unfortunate artist. The police officer stepped forward and interposed himself. 'No,' he said in accented but clear Albionish. 'He must come with me.'

'Monsieur Jordan?' Madame Calvert said. 'Impossible. He's an important artist. Besides, he needs medical care.'

'I must insist,' the police officer said. 'We have the facilities for taking care of these cases.'

'Captain,' Madame Calvert began.

'Inspector, not Captain,' the officer corrected. 'Inspector Paul. But given time, it will be Captain Paul, so you are correct, if a little premature.'

Aubrey rolled his eyes. He'd heard the same confident tones in the junior bureaucrats who flocked around his father, looking for advancement. Inspector Paul was in his middle twenties, dark-haired and dark-eyed. His uniform had creases sharp enough to be a danger to small children. His hair had a centre part so perfect that Aubrey was sure he must use a measuring tape to get it exactly in the middle.

Inspector Paul addressed himself to Madame Calvert while the doctor stared first at Monsieur Jordan, then at the police officer, then at his watch. 'If you have a telephone,' Inspector Paul said, 'I will call my superiors and they will send a special team for Monsieur Jordan.'

Madame Calvert nodded, as if she didn't trust herself to speak, then she shepherded the doctor down the stairs. Before Inspector Paul followed, he nodded at Aubrey and George. 'You will remain, of course? I will have questions for you.'

Monsieur Jordan had lapsed into silence. Aubrey studied the flaccid face and saw no emotions. Without them, he thought, the human face might as well be made of wax.

'Welcome to Lutetia,' Aubrey muttered and he sat on the vacant chaise longue.

'I don't know about you, old man,' George said as he joined him, 'but I was hoping for something a little less exciting.'

Aubrey had the same regrets. In Lutetia for less than a day and already being interviewed by police after being assaulted by a citizen infected with something horrible. So much for a discreet presence in the capital. He knew he should contact the embassy and let the Ambassador know what had happened, but decided that it could wait.

Inspector Paul reappeared, alone. He went to the canvas bolster that had once been an artist.

'What about the doctor?' Aubrey asked. 'Monsieur Jordan hit his head badly.'

Inspector Paul shrugged and Aubrey saw that the gesture was a favourite of the dapper police officer. He probably practises it in front of a mirror, Aubrey thought.

'He doesn't need a doctor,' Inspector Paul said. 'It is very difficult to hurt them when they're in this state.'

'What state would that be? And who are "they"?'

'Nothing to interest a young visitor from Albion.' Inspector Paul smiled. 'Madame Calvert told me you arrived very recently. I hope you enjoy your time in the City of Lights.'

Aubrey knew a dismissal when he heard one. 'I'm sure we will.'

Madame Calvert passed Inspector Paul on the stairs. 'This just came for you,' she said to Aubrey and she held out a large, cream envelope.

At first, Aubrey didn't want to take it. It had all the signs of official correspondence. His experience suggested that such items rarely contained good news.

George saw his hesitation and reached for the envelope, but Aubrey overcame his reluctance and took it before his friend could. Madame Calvert lingered a moment, then left while Aubrey opened the letter.

'It's your father's stationery, isn't it?' George said. 'What's it say?'

Aubrey scanned the letter. His heart sank. 'No, it's not my father's. It's from the office of the Prime Minister.'

'Same thing, isn't it?'

'Not really. This is official, and probably not written by him.' It's not a note from a father to his son, in other words. 'It's to let me know that the Prime Minister of Albion will be in Lutetia soon for an official meeting with his Gallian counterpart.' He tapped the paper with a forefinger. 'My father is going to be here on the twenty-sixth, George.'

George stood back, trying gauge Aubrey's reaction. 'Nearly two weeks away.'

'I thought it too good to be true, you know.'

'What is?'

'Their letting me go on a holiday like this, by myself.'

'I'm with you, old man.'

'I mean, without them.' Aubrey folded the letter and put back in the envelope. 'He's coming to check on me.'

Four

THE NEXT MORNING, AUBREY DRAGGED OPEN THE curtains, then the windows. Their fifth-floor position may have been awkward for toting luggage, but it did provide a glorious aspect of the city.

The room faced the apartments opposite, but their building was taller so that Aubrey had a clear view south toward the river. Between the river and his vantage point, he could make out the bordering greenery of the trees along the riverside gardens.

When he leaned out of the window, he could see that the city was stirring. In the distance to the south-west, over the river, the Exposition Tower stood proudly. Not far to the east of the tower, he made out the gold spire of the church of St Ambrose. He looked west, trying to find the heights of the Haltain district, but the early morning haze obscured the view. He took in Lutetia, his gaze roaming across parks, bridges and streets crowded with narrow buildings. He itched to grab his guidebook and use the map to work out which stately building was which, where museums, galleries and archives were, the best way across the river to the university, but he decided simply to enjoy the vista, revelling in the unknown, tantalising city spread out in front of him.

Looking closer, he sought the ornate cast-iron entrance of the underground railway on the street corner. Having found it, the river and – by craning his neck and looking south – the university, Aubrey felt oriented.

Below, in front of a tobacconist, he noticed a man in a grey flannel suit. Unlike all the others on the street, he wasn't hurrying. He was studying Madame Calvert's building and scribbling in a notebook. Street names? Numbers? Aubrey tried to get a better look, but the man snapped his notebook closed and strode off.

He remembered the words of the Scholar Tan. On the battlefield, the enemy will watch you as you watch him. He snorted. He wasn't on a battlefield; he was on holiday.

His bedroom was sunny, with an angled roof and two windows, one of which Aubrey had been using for his reconnaissance. Striped wallpaper, a washstand, a large oak wardrobe that looked as if it was being strangled by a thousand wooden vines, a tall, standard mirror, and a brass gaslight hanging from the ceiling made the room comfortable, while a door led to a small study with a desk and a bookshelf full of classic Gallian philosophical works.

A horrible groan made the good spirits shrivel inside him. He spun and saw George in the doorway, staring at him with baleful eyes. He wore his favourite old dressing-gown, and his hair was dishevelled. 'It's a holiday, old man,' he mumbled. 'Go back to bed.'

Aubrey grinned. He felt good – strong and healthy after a full night's sleep. It seemed his condition had steadied, thanks to his innate stubbornness and a small strengthening spell he'd tried. 'I don't think so. We have so much to do.'

'Sleep is high on my list, as it should be on yours.' George went to trudge back to his room.

'Food, George,' Aubrey said softly. 'A Lutetian breakfast awaits us. Pastries. Fresh bread. Jam and cream. The kind of hot chocolate that angels weep for.'

George stopped in his tracks. He turned. 'On the other hand, a man who sleeps too much fritters his life away, I always say. Which way is breakfast?'

AUBREY BATHED FIRST THEN TOOK THE STAIRS TO THE breakfast room to wait for George. The windows were open and, along with the sounds of horses' hooves on cobblestones, Aubrey thought he could smell apple blossom. It was difficult to tell, as a platter of freshly baked pastries was waiting on a sideboard. Their aroma filled the high-ceilinged room.

Madame Calvert was the only other person at breakfast, even though a dozen other tables were set. She was sitting at a table by a window, reading and sipping a cup of coffee.

Aubrey bowed. 'Madame.'

'Ah, Mr Fitzwilliam.' She closed her book.

'Is there any news of Monsieur Jordan?'

'Nothing. There rarely is in these cases, or so I hear.' She gestured at the sideboard. 'Please help yourself.'

Aubrey took a plate and selected a rolled-up chocolate construction and a curly jam-filled masterpiece. He didn't have a sweet tooth, normally, but Lutetian baking was hard to resist. He poured a cup of chocolate and joined Madame Calvert at her table. 'You don't mind?'

She gave a slight inclination of her head that indicated she was not inconvenienced by Aubrey's company at this time, but in other circumstances it may be different. Aubrey thought it an eloquent – and economical – gesture.

He sipped his very fine hot chocolate. 'You said "these cases". What did you mean by that?'

Madame Calvert considered her answer before speaking. 'It is not widely reported, but lately the city has seen many like poor Monsieur Jordan. People have been found wandering the streets, assaulting passers-by, and all as mindless as you saw.' She made an expression of polite distaste. 'I never thought I'd see one in my establishment.'

'I see. And this is the stuff of rumour?'

She fixed him with a look. 'It is true.'

'And what happens to these unfortunates?'

'A police facility. It was once a hospital. Much has been tried to cure them, but nothing has worked. They are monitored, now, that is all.'

'How many times has this happened?'

'Who knows? Dozens, most certainly. Dozens of people who have been transformed from normal Lutetians into husks.' She shuddered, elegantly. 'It is distressing. Monsieur Jordan was a wonderful artist. A fine watercolourist and just starting to become well known. Why, the Society of Artists had even commissioned a photograph of him for their journal.'

George entered, fresh from bathing, his hair brushed, his cheeks ruddy. He rubbed his hands. 'Excellent! Good morning, Madame Calvert.' He arrowed toward the sideboard and stood for a moment, entranced by the variety, before taking a plate and building a tower of pastries.

Madame Calvert rose and clasped her book under her arm. Aubrey stood, remembering to clutch his napkin before it fell from his lap. 'Madame.'

She left. George joined Aubrey at the table. 'Plans, old man?' he said in between bites of a custard-filled delicacy. 'You'll want to do some magic or whatnot to find out what's ailing our Monsieur Jordan?'

'I don't think so. The police seem to have that matter well in hand.'

'That hasn't stopped you in the past.'

'Be that as it may. Today is a day to stroll around our neighbourhood at leisure, enjoying the sights. I need to do some shopping, odds and ends, that kind of thing.'

'You want to see Caroline, don't you?'

Aubrey adopted an expression of what he hoped was haughty disdain. 'If we happen to bump into her, I won't be displeased.'

George tackled another sugar-encrusted work of art. 'Remarkable young lady, wouldn't you say? I mean, coming over here to study and all that. Keen intellect.'

'George, you don't have to convince me. I think highly enough of her as it is.' He rubbed his cheek. 'We're in Lutetia, she's in Lutetia. She's at the university, we're close by. I'm sure an opportunity will arise.' An opportunity this time, he thought, not a crisis.

'Excellent.' George dusted sugar from his chin. 'She said she'd teach me that shoulder rolling thing, the one where you send an attacker flying through the air.'

'A person of many talents is our Miss Hepworth.'

THE SUMMER MORNING WAS BRIGHT AND SUNNY, WITH A cloudless blue sky welcoming them. The streets were busy with carts, carriages, bicycles and motorcars. Pavements thronged with pedestrians, some ambling along, others walking briskly. Aubrey felt he could tell the tourists from the natives by the velocity of their gait.

As he studied the passers-by, he thought he had another way to pick the local citizens: their garments. By and large, the clothes of the Lutetians were well cut and smart.

The women wore long dresses that were softer and less bulky than the fashion in Albion. Hats were large, often fastened under the chin with a scarf, but they avoided the extravagant feather and flower adornments that always puzzled Aubrey at home.

He paid close attention to the garments the men wore. Suits for the men were trim and comfortable, and it seemed as if the Lutetians had done away with high, starched collars, a trend Aubrey was in favour of. Hats seemed to signify the demeanour of the wearer – jaunty straw boaters, cheery bowlers, as well as more sombre homburgs and even some top hats on the older gentlemen.

The Lutetians wore their clothes with taste and style, often adding a brooch or a silk handkerchief to an outfit to add a touch of individuality. This approach appealed to Aubrey and he made a note to see what he could do in that department.

Having gained directions from Madame Calvert, Aubrey steered their way toward the Central Market. He'd mapped the day carefully; the market was between their apartment and the university.

Aubrey smelled and heard the market long before he saw it. Shouting, cackling, sizzling and braying announced its location, and then he smelled hot food and farm animals. When they turned off the Boulevard of Honesty and saw the market precinct, the assault on the senses was complete.

Rows of stalls stretched out in front of them, with barrows doing their best to push through the mass of people. Most of the customers were laden with bags crammed full of fruit, vegetables, and mouth-wateringly fragrant wrapped packages.

They stood near the base of a monument, an ancient stone cross. George sniffed the air. 'These Lutetians know a thing or two about food.'

'It's a way of life,' Aubrey said. He stood on tiptoes and tried to see over the heads of the crowd. 'Buy some cheese, if you like. Have it sent back to our rooms.'

'Excellent idea. Any preferences?'

'Not for me, thanks, George. I'm making preparations.'

George raised an eyebrow. 'What are you expecting?'

'It's the unexpected I'm preparing for, not the expected.'

'Splendid, old man. What if I take responsibility for buying edibles so you can concentrate on your stuff?'

'Excellent idea.'

In truth, Aubrey wasn't sure what he was after. 'Useful Purchases' was how he thought of this sort of provisioning. With George ploughing a way through the crowd, he ignored the shouts of the stallholders, instead drifting along and letting his gaze roam over the offerings from across Lutetia.

After seeing all manner of fruit, vegetables, cheese, meat and fish, they pushed into the part of the market that was dominated by garment and cloth merchants. He stopped at a stand with second-hand clothes neatly hanging from racks. 'Wait here a moment,' he said to George.

'Certainly. Would you like a peanut?'

George held out a paper bag. The aroma of warm nuts rose from it. 'I didn't see you buy these,' Aubrey said as he took a few. They were fresh, salty and very good.

'You have to be quick around here.' George shook the bag into his hand and then threw the nuts into his mouth.

'So I see. No more left?'

George crumpled the bag in his fist and shook his head. 'Sorry, old man.'

Once Aubrey had inspected the clothes and convinced himself they were clean, he bargained his way into a reasonable price for an assortment of vests, trousers and caps. Then he negotiated a fee to have them delivered to their rooms. The gnome of a stallholder grinned broadly when they were finished and Aubrey realised this was a sure sign he'd paid much more than he needed to.

The stalls became more various. Books, bric-a-brac, flowers, more clothes, second-hand musical instruments – the market was a treasure trove of stuff both useful and useless. Aubrey made some considered purchases, but a number of things he bought on impulse, simply because they caught his eye. Some cheap costume jewellery. Skeins of wool. A tuning fork. A bag of glass beads.

After parting with a handful of coins for a pair of brightly coloured spinning tops, Aubrey took stock.

'Done?' George asked. He was finishing a strawberry ice-cream.

'I think so.'

'So, you're now prepared.'

'If I have to distract a small child while tuning a piano and mending a pullover, I'm all set.'

'Marvellous.' George scratched his nose. 'Promises to be a ripping holiday, this.'

THE BOULEVARD OF WISDOM LED TO THE UNIVERSITY. Intrigued by Lutetia's street names, Aubrey consulted his guidebook. After the revolution in the eighteenth century, Louis Gant, one of the senior committee members, had been fanatical about renaming all the thoroughfares in the city. The old street names were remnants of an oppressive past when the monarchy ruled, and the liberation of the people would only be complete when their addresses were liberated too.

Thus, many streets were renamed after admired revolutionary qualities such as equality or fortitude. The move met with little resistance, particularly since arguing against the reforms of the revolution usually ended up with more names added to the list of those about to be executed for anti-revolutionary sentiments.

Some of the old street names survived, however. Louis Gant's program had faltered after he went on to express the view that cheese was inherently anti-revolutionary and needed to be stamped out. He was quickly promoted to the head of the 'To Be Executed' list and wasn't missed at all.

George kept up an admiring commentary as they strolled, extolling the virtues of the architecture and the young ladies with equal verve. Aubrey, however, had his mind on sorting out his priorities. Which of the multiple demands on his time would he undertake first? He was tempted to try to find the Faculty of Magic for himself, but duty suggested he take on his father's requests first. Then again, locating Dr Romellier for his mother might be straightforward. Or perhaps he should approach the police officer, Inspector Paul, about his grandmother's stolen letters? And while he was there he could inquire about Monsieur Jordan's progress . . .

No, he told himself, don't open another can of worms until you've eaten the last one.

So it was without great surprise that Aubrey found his feet directing themselves toward the university just in time for Professor Lavoisier's lecture on taxonomy. In front of the lecture theatre, while George inspected the gothic grandeur of the cloisters, they happened to bump into Caroline Hepworth.

'Caroline,' Aubrey exclaimed with his best attempt at astonishment, 'whatever are you doing here?'

She was wearing a small, stylish hat trimmed with navy blue ribbon. Her blouse was white linen while her skirt was a shade of soft lavender. Shifting her large notebook from one arm to another, she studied him with an expression that was not the outright delight he'd been hoping for.

'Aubrey. How long did it take you to find out Professor Lavoisier's lecture schedule?' She favoured George with a smile. 'Hello, George. How's the cornet?'

'I'm making sure I don't over-practise. It's a nasty problem for any brass player.'

Aubrey felt like putting up his hand to attract Caroline's attention. 'What are the chances, eh? Our bumping into each other like this?'

'I refuse to believe in chance where you're concerned, Aubrey Fitzwilliam. I believe you'd try to manipulate the Laws of Probability if you could.'

'I couldn't . . . I mean, wouldn't. I –'

'Exactly. Now, I have a lecture to attend.'

Aubrey desperately wanted not to appear a complete idiot in front of Caroline. It was difficult, considering the effect she had on him. Sometimes it felt as if his brain were turning to soup whenever he saw her.

'Of course.' He fumbled for and found his pocket watch. 'Good Lord, is that the time?'

Caroline rolled her eyes, but the transparent ploy gave Aubrey a moment to think. Then his eye fell on a noticeboard on the wall outside the lecture theatre. 'George, we must go. We'll be late for the audition.'

George blinked, then rallied well. 'Can't be late. Sorry to rush, Caroline. Best of luck with the taxation lecture.'

'Taxonomy. The science of classification.' She pursed her lips and then smiled, briefly. 'You know, this lecture is going to be repeated this afternoon. I'd rather attend then, I think. Perhaps I'll spend the morning with you two instead, it being such a lovely day. If you don't mind.'

'Mind?' Aubrey said. 'We'd be delighted.'

'Good. I haven't been to an audition for an age.'

Aubrey felt as if he'd dug a very deep hole and then dived head first into it. 'Audition. Yes.'

'Where is Tontine Hall?' George asked, scratching his head at the audition poster. It had been roughly and boldly printed, black on red. 'I'm guessing that's where the audition's being held. I mean, I remember that's where we're going.'

'It's not far,' Caroline said. 'I'll show you the way.'

She strode off along the cloistered walkway, leaving them to follow in her wake.

Aubrey thought frantically. An audition. Of all the foolish things . . . At least it was an Albion-language production – a gesture of solidarity with Gallia's allies, organised by the university's Albion Friendship Society, according to the poster. Ivey and Wetherall's The Buccaneers. A musical comedy from the finest Albionish playmakers of the age. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, remembering the school production of The Buccaneers. It could be worse, he supposed. He could be starring in the first all-crocodile production of Hrolf, King of Scandia, for instance.

Aubrey loved the stage, but he knew his singing voice was not first rate. Third rate, at a pinch. He could manage Ivey and Wetherall patter songs, but heaven help him if he had to attempt any of the romantic duets.

Of course, if Caroline could be persuaded to take a part, he'd show he was a quick learner.

Tontine Hall was a red-brick monstrosity that looked as if it had been built on the remains of a medieval chapel or two. Caroline stood at the entrance. If Aubrey didn't know better, he would have thought she were grinning.

'After you,' she said.

When faced with potential embarrassment, Aubrey had one tactic: head up, march straight into the thick of battle and rely on his wits to cope with what came.

'Thank you.' With George at his shoulder, Aubrey opened the heavy wooden door and strode inside.

He walked into a haze of cigarette smoke. On a stage at the end of the hall, a piano plinked away gamely. The tall arched windows were covered by black curtains and the room smelt of cloves and dry rot.

Surrounding the piano, a score or so of people were trying their best to sing the chorus of 'Jolly Jack Tars Are We'. Their Albionish was good, but with a distinct Gallian accent that sat oddly with lyrics professing undying loyalty to King and Country.

Aubrey made his way to the stage. The few spectators in the seats regarded him with enough curiosity to stop smoking.

He waited until the song finished. Fell apart rather than finished was Aubrey's summation, but he didn't want to be critical. He'd been involved in enough haphazard performances at Stonelea School to realise that any dramatic performance was a little miracle in itself.

'Hello?' he ventured, and all eyes on the stage turned toward him. The pianist actually rose from his seat to get a better look. He took the cigarette from his mouth and threw it to the floor. 'You are an Albionite!' he said with evident delight. 'Welcome!'

Immediately, Aubrey was surrounded by the Gallians. Most seemed to want to embrace him or kiss him on the cheeks, men and women both. The members of the Friendship Society belied the Gallian reputation for aloofness. Their regard for Albion did seem genuine, to the extent that Aubrey almost found it overwhelming. Finally, the pianist dragged Aubrey onto the stage.

'The Albion Friendship Society welcomes you,' he declared in Albionish. 'What can we do for you?'

Aubrey peered over the heads of the adoring Gallians. Caroline and George stood just inside the entrance, covering their laughter. 'Er. Who's in charge here?'

The pianist raised an eyebrow. 'I am the director of this production. Claude Duval is my name.'

'Do you have any non-singing parts?'

This set Duval into paroxysms of glee. 'You want a part? In our humble play to honour the alliance between our two nations? But of course! To have a true Albionite in our production will be an honour!'

A cheer went up at this announcement, but it was an oddly staggered one as the pianist's words were translated and passed among the spectators, crew and prospective players. 'This will be a triumph!' a short, dark woman cried.

Aubrey pointed to his friends. 'And I'm not alone. Two more Albionites are here to join you.'

As one, the spectators and players rushed at Caroline and George. Surrounded by Gallians, they were shepherded to the stage.

'George is an excellent cornet player,' Aubrey announced. 'While Miss Hepworth is . . .' Competent in just about any area, he thought, but Duval interrupted.

'She is most beautiful,' he said, and he took her hand. 'Won't you be our leading lady?'

Caroline allowed Duval to kiss the back of her hand. She removed it from his grasp, slowly. 'No.'

'No?'

'I'm sorry. I'm far too busy with my studies.' She smiled, and Aubrey thought Duval was about to swoon. 'I will help backstage when I can. And I must have front row seats for opening night.'

Duval thought this a splendid idea and he spent some time introducing Caroline to everyone, calling her the Belle of Albion.

The Albion Friendship Society was apparently a rather recent phenomenon. Waving his hands with excitement, Duval explained that his mother had been an Albionite and he had spent some years there, when younger. 'Now, times are not good,' he went on. 'The Continent is alive with suspicion and fear, so I asked myself, "What can I do?"' He clapped his hands together. 'The answer came to me and I began the Albion Friendship Society to encourage camaraderie between our two nations. We have held lectures and soirees, and now we embark on our first dramatic production. Ivey and Wetherall! So fine, so Albionish!'

'Well, yes. Both of them.'

'And your name,' Duval asked Aubrey. 'What is your name?'

Aubrey hesitated. Would it be better to go incognito in his time in Lutetia? Or was his presence in the city well enough known already? 'Fitzwilliam,' he ventured. 'Aubrey Fitzwilliam.'

A stick-thin young woman stared at him. 'You are not related to the Prime Minister of Albion? Sir Darius Fitzwilliam?'

Aubrey shrugged. 'I have that honour. I am his son.'

'No,' Duval said, clutching at his chest. 'It is our honour! This will be an event that will be talked about for years.'

Possibly, Aubrey thought, but perhaps not for the reasons you think. 'You're too kind.'

'Now.' Duval gestured grandly. 'We must celebrate the grand alliance of our nations. Friends forever!'

'What about the auditions?' Aubrey asked.

Duval shrugged. 'We will continue them another time.' He eyed Aubrey and his companions. 'How long have you been in our city?'

'George and I arrived yesterday.'

'Impossible! We must show you Lutetia!'

Duval and his friends would hear no objections. Aubrey, George and Caroline were swept up like driftwood in a flood. The chattering, laughing Gallians bore them out of Tontine Hall and into the city.

What began as a high-spirited promenade through the nearby parks and gardens turned into lunch at a café on the edge of a small lake. While couples rowed past and children sailed toy yachts, Gallian–Albionish relations were advanced on several fronts via the avenues of food and drink, with miscommunication simply adding to the hilarity. The sun shone through the trees. The fragrance of wisteria rolled over the café from a nearby arbour where the mauve flowers created a pastel-coloured tunnel. A small band in a corner of the café played dance music.

Aubrey pushed aside his second slice of lemon tart and wondered if he'd ever need to eat again. He looked down the long table and saw George explaining something to two young Gallian ladies. By their expressions, they were baffled by the conversation, but entertained nonetheless.

Duval was sitting on Aubrey's left, with Caroline just to Duval's other side. Duval was chatting in animated fashion, slipping between Albionish and Gallian when it became clear that Caroline was at ease with the language.

Aubrey waited until Duval drew breath, which took some time, and squeezed himself into the conversation. 'Duval, most grateful for your hospitality. Wonderful place.'

With an effort, Duval tore himself away from Caroline. 'Thank you, Fitzwilliam. This café is owned by my uncle. He is famous for his duck.'

'I see.' Aubrey groped for another topic of conversation. 'And how would you say things are between our two countries?'

'We are allies. We are good friends.' Duval's gaze fell to the small glass of coffee he was rolling around in his hand. 'We need to be, of course.'

'Holmland,' Caroline said.

'Yes. The Holmlanders have ambitions. The Housel River is broad, but not so broad that the Holmlanders cannot see across it to Lower Gallia. Coal mines, iron mines . . . it is a rich land, especially if you have large, growing industries.'

Aubrey revised his opinion of Duval. The man was no empty-headed dilettante. 'And is everyone in Gallia afraid of Holmland?'

A shrug. 'Many are. Some dislike Albion more than they hate Holmland. Some do not know what to think; others ignore the obvious.' He sighed. 'The Giraud government is foolish. Prime Minister Giraud tries to be too many things to too many people. He is weak, and this is a bad time to be weak.'

George appeared, beaming. 'Delightful crowd you have here, Duval. Very friendly.'

'We're talking politics here, George,' Aubrey said.

'What? On such a pleasant day with such ravishing company? Shame, Aubrey, shame.'

'Things can be pleasant while unrest lies underneath. Isn't that right, Duval?'

Duval shrugged again. His high spirits seemed to have evaporated.

'Hardly,' George said. 'Lutetia is nigh on perfect, I'd say.' He waved at one of the girls at the end of the table.

'Not so perfect,' Duval muttered. 'Not when the Soul Stealer is abroad.'

The words were so theatrically ominous that Aubrey at first thought Duval was joking. When the Gallian refused to raise his eyes, Aubrey wasn't so sure. 'What is the Soul Stealer?'

'Sounds interesting,' George said, and dragged a chair over from a nearby table.

Duval spread his hands. 'It is not something we talk about. It is distressing.'

'You should. Aubrey's dashed interested in stuff like that.'

Aubrey shrugged. 'We are newcomers to your city, Duval. If there is something we should be aware of, please tell us.'

Duval put his hands palm down on the table and lifted his head, a picture of resolution. 'You are our friends. You deserve to know, for your safety.'

He gulped the last of his coffee and put the glass firmly on the table. 'When the first victims were found, a few months ago, nothing was thought of it. Catatonia, the doctors called it. Catatonia of a strange sort that left the sufferers shambling along the streets, striking out blindly at those around them.' He grimaced. 'It happened to a neighbour of mine, a wine merchant. I saw him blundering along the street and thought he had imbibed too deeply from his own stock.'

Duval gazed over the lake. Two rowing boats had collided, but at such a sedate pace that the couples in their respective craft were laughing instead of arguing.

'The victims increased,' he went on. 'A few, then a few more. Dozens by now, all over the city. There is a terror at work.'

'We saw one,' Aubrey said, and he couldn't help but notice Caroline's quick glance of concern.

'You did?' Duval said. 'Where?'

Aubrey described the encounter with Monsieur Jordan, the artist. 'It was like grappling with an animated corpse,' he finished.

'No,' Duval said. 'They're not dead. They are missing something.'

'Their soul?'

'Possibly. Rumours are like lightning, facts are like snails.'

It sounded intriguing, but what really pricked at Aubrey was the notion of souls being stolen. He hadn't considered this, even though he knew that potent magic had been involved in Monsieur Jordan's case. Any magic that involved souls interested him as there was always the possibility that it could shed light on his own condition.

Duval thumped the table with a fist, making Aubrey jump. 'Ha!' the Gallian said. 'It is too beautiful a day to be so gloomy! And with such beautiful ladies, we should be singing, not sighing!'

Caroline laughed and Aubrey's heart sank. The Gallian's continental charm was powerful. What hope did dull old Aubrey have?

The party eventually left the café as evening was drawing in. Aubrey claimed tiredness and tried to slip away, but he was dragged along with the crowd who, true to Duval's words, sang as they wove along the streets of Lutetia. The Albion Friendship Society became a sort of caravan as it made its way from one landmark to another, stopping at various oases for refreshments as the need arose. The need seemed to arise with astonishing frequency.

They had just finished admiring the electric lights illuminating the Middle Bridge and were about to leave to see the rebuilt Town Hall when George tugged on Aubrey's arm. 'Something's heading our way, old man.'

Aubrey peered across the river to see a host of flaming torches coming toward the bridge.

Duval flapped his arms with some urgency. 'Quick! Quick! Let them through!'

Aubrey agreed that it was best not to be caught on the bridge with such a horde. He saw that Caroline had made her way down the stairs to the walkway along the embankment, and that George was nearby. He went after them. They came together near a statue of a revolutionary hero on a horse that looked as if it was tired of being bronze.

The marchers tramped closer to the bridge. They went in good order, silent except for the noise of hobnailed boots on cobblestones. They were dressed in workers' clothes – twill trousers, vests, cloth caps – and those who weren't brandishing torches were holding up placards announcing that they were the Marchmaine Independence League. Aubrey raised an eyebrow. The movement had more supporters than he'd thought. When his father had spoken of it, Aubrey had imagined a few unworldly troublemakers standing on street corners and haranguing passers-by.

Aubrey climbed the grassy bank to the road above to see better, and a few of the more curious actors went with him.

He could spy no obvious leader of the marchers. Grim faced, many had rolled-up sleeves, an indication that they'd recently come from work. Or they're expecting more physical exertion, Aubrey thought. He glanced in the direction they were marching – toward the Town Hall – and his eyes widened.

An equally large mass was heading up the road directly toward the Marchmainers. This crowd didn't hold up torches, nor placards. Streetlights glinted from gold braid and highly polished truncheons.

'Police,' Aubrey said. A reveller at his shoulder muttered something uncomplimentary. Soon the word had spread through the Albion Friendship Society. Nonchalantly, they backed away and gathered on the embankment, well away from the road and the bridge.

Aubrey decided that the Lutetians would know best, and he followed. An iron rail ran along the edge of the embankment and Aubrey vaulted onto it for a better view. He steadied himself against a wrought-iron lamp post and watched, with trepidation, as the two opposing groups spied each other.

A ripple spread through the front ranks of the Marchmainers. Murmured commands, passed from one comrade to the next, slowed the procession, packing bodies close together. Soon, they stopped, filling the bridge and stretching south up Charity Avenue. They stood, torches burning, waiting.

A whistle sounded from the police. They, too, stopped, boots crashing as the ranks halted in good order twenty yards from the Marchmainers.

The two groups eyed each other. 'What's going to happen?' he asked Duval. The director's face was pale.

'Nothing, I hope. The Marchmainers have not been violent before. I do not know why the police are here.'

Aubrey frowned and scanned the area. His fingertips were itching in a way that said magic was nearby. He rubbed them together, but the feeling didn't diminish – it grew more intense. He concentrated, casting about with his magical awareness, and he caught a touch, a flavour that was tantalisingly familiar. It had a resonance that he'd encountered before – and it was growing more powerful. Before he could recall it exactly, he was shocked by a wave of potent enchantment that shook him deeply, leaving him stunned for a moment. Reeling, he clutched at the lamp post, struggling to draw breath. Numbly, he felt as if the whole world had shivered. He gasped, drawing a sharp look from George. 'What's wrong, old man?'

Aubrey shook his head as the unsettling sensation receded. A spell had been cast, very close by, a spell of such force that he'd been caught in its poorly limited field of effect. He shook his head, slowly, trying to clear it. He felt as if he'd been picked up by the collar and shaken by a terrier the size of an elephant.

An angry shout came from the mass of Marchmainers. Aubrey tried to see who it was, as the man kept up a long stream of invective, cursing the police, the government and – most puzzlingly – his bootmaker.

Aubrey finally spied the shouter as those around him turned, clearly startled by his vehemence. He was stocky, with a bald head and fringe of grey beard. His face was very red, even in the yellow light of the electric lamps on the bridge. As he ranted, he shook both fists in the air. His comrades took steps backward as spittle began to fly.

Another voice rose from the Marchmainers, equally angry. A tall youth on the far side of the bridge howled bloodthirsty threats at the police. He leapt onto the guard rail of the bridge and danced with rage. After a moment of spiralling, lunatic shouting, he lost his footing and plunged, still shouting, to the river below.

Men rushed to the railing, but after a mighty splash, the stream of angry abuse floated up to them uninterrupted. Instead of relief, however, this seemed to prompt fury in the rest of the Marchmainers. Anger swept through them and soon the disciplined parade was a mob: hoarsethroated, red-faced, fists shaking.

Aubrey felt their wrath as something tangible. It reached out and nudged him, rudely. What right do they have? he thought immediately, then he wondered who they were. His sudden temper was unfocused, but urgent and hard to ignore. He glanced at George. His fists were clenched and his nostrils flared. On his left, Duval was muttering under his breath.

Magic. How could I have forgotten? Aubrey pinched his own cheek and his anger ebbed. He realised he had the lamp post in a death grip. He let go, slowly. 'George, Caroline. It's a spell. Don't let it consume you.'

The magic had the same characteristics as the spell they'd encountered following the assassination attempt on the Crown Prince and the death of Caroline's father. Then, they'd run into magic that distilled fear into a paralysis-inducing terror – Dr Tremaine's handiwork and part of his plans to bring Albion to war.

This magic had all the same hallmarks: an emotion, distilled and refined, ready to launch on unsuspecting victims. An emotion bomb.

He climbed down from the rail. George shook himself then rubbed his face with both hands. 'Nasty stuff, that.' He shuddered.

'Magic,' Caroline said. She pushed her hair back. 'I can still feel the anger. It crept up on me.'

Duval stared at them. He had pushed the anger aside, but the effort had left him pale-faced and shaking.

More shouts rose, this time from the police. Aubrey jerked around and saw that the calm, resigned faces of the constables had gone. They were running, faces contorted with hatred, truncheons held high.

Aubrey stared. The Marchmainers heaved forward, gibbering in anger, losing their words as they were swept up by their fury. Their hobnails clattered as they hurried to throw themselves at the police.

The two forces crashed together. More shouting and cries of pain erupted as bodies struck bodies, then it was fist and truncheon work.

As the brawl quickly spread, Aubrey realised that they could be in danger. Men stood toe to toe, swinging wild punches, roaring their wordless anger. Others wrestled, heaving each other to the ground while crashing into melees where screaming men pummelled each other.

The sound of the battle was the sound of wild beasts, an entire jungle gone mad.

'We should leave,' he said to George and Caroline, but just then the mayhem spilled over the bridge and down the grassy bank. In an instant, they were swallowed up in the clash.

George raised his fists. Aubrey went to stand in front of Caroline, but she stiff-armed a police office who clawed at her. The officer staggered backward and was taken in a clumsy bear hug by a Marchmainer with a torn, bloody ear.

Aubrey grinned at Caroline. She reached for him. 'Look out!'

Aubrey was cannoned into from behind. His momentum sent him right over the iron rail on the edge of the embankment. He somersaulted through the air, struck the greasy river, half-winded, and sank.

Shocked by the coldness of the water, he tried to get his breath back, which was a bad idea as he was now well beneath the surface. He choked, thrashed, then shot to the surface. He wiped water from his eyes and saw that the battle was now raging along the bridge and up and down the embankment. He couldn't see George or Caroline.

Aubrey's clothes weighed him down and he swallowed oily water. His boots filled and felt like lead weights. He gasped, heart pounding, fearing he'd be dragged to the bottom and drowned, and he had a fleeting moment of embarrassment at the prospect of such an undignified end. The newspapers would love it, he thought.

Soon, however, he realised that he could keep afloat as long as he churned and thrashed like a whirligig. He felt like an idiot, trying to keep himself upright, but this prompted an idea. Sound consisted of waves, and he'd had some experience applying the Law of Amplification to sounds. Using some of the same principles, could he cast a spell that would work on waves in water?

He swept his arm. A puny swell spread toward the riverbank. Aubrey chanted the amplification spell, looking to adjust the variables for intensity and distance to account for the different medium through which the waves would travel. Bobbing in the water, he coughed the spell out, syllable by syllable.

The wave grew. Slowly at first, it was nearly a foot high when it reached the embankment. It smacked against the stone blocks, then rolled back on itself, mounting as it came. It picked Aubrey up like a cork, raising him a full yard, then it was past and making its way toward the far bank.

Aubrey wallowed around, trying to trace its progress. In the darkness, lights from the far bank stretched out toward him, long fingers rippling on the water. He thought he could make out a shadowy line moving away. He glanced behind him to see the brawl was still raging.

A roar dragged him back to stare at the far bank. His eyes widened when he saw the shadow line strike. Spray leapt into the air with a hollow boom and then the wave was racing back toward him, climbing higher with each second.

He'd been more successful than he'd thought.

He sucked in a lungful of air and dived, aiming for the river bottom. He felt the wave pass overhead, tugging at his water-logged clothes, and he was tossed about by its passage. He clawed for the surface in time to see the wave, now fifteen feet or more tall, crash against the embankment. The mass of water crested, then toppled onto the unsuspecting brawlers.

Foam crashed on stone. The wave rolled part-way up the bank, then receded, dragging stunned Marchmainers and police back to the river with it. Some managed to cling to the railing, but many ended up in the water.

A voice came through the darkness. 'Aubrey! Take my hand!'

Caroline. He floundered toward the embankment. She was leaning far out, her other hand gripped by George who, in turn, had his arm wrapped around the lamp post. Aubrey found muddy stone underfoot and she gripped his wrist. She helped him clamber up.

He rested on his knees, head bowed, panting.

'You're shaking like a leaf,' she said.

THE WAVE HAD DONE WHAT AUBREY HAD HOPED FOR, dousing the passion of both the police and the Marchmainers. The two soggy groups separated, limping away from each other, the unhurt helping the wounded, while dozens were being pulled from the river. Sullen bewilderment had replaced the spell-induced anger, with the Marchmainers disappearing back over the bridge before the police could rally enough to make any arrests. Aubrey watched, wet and shivering. Caroline was barely damp and had avoided being thrown into the river. George was wet to his waist and had a bruised shoulder, but was more concerned with Aubrey's wellbeing than his own.

Aubrey sat with his back to a lamp post. He was exhausted. A gulf yawned inside him, an emptiness that was frightening. He shuddered, recoiling from its implications.' Duval?' he asked. 'The others?'

George had his hands jammed in the pockets of his jacket. He'd lost his boater. From his sour expression, he wasn't about to go and look for it. 'No-one's too badly hurt. They've gone, didn't seem to want to linger around here at all.'

An oil lantern loomed out of the darkness. 'Mr Fitzwilliam. I see you are here.'

Aubrey stood. All his muscles were sore; he felt as if he'd been beaten and wrung like dirty washing. 'Inspector Paul. Are you in charge here?'

Inspector Paul bowed to Caroline. He was well groomed and dry. 'I am Inspector Paul of the Lutetian constabulary. And you are?'

Aubrey waved a hand wearily. 'Miss Caroline Hepworth, this is Inspector Paul. Inspector Paul, Miss Hepworth.'

'She's with us,' George said.

'Of course. But what are you doing here?' Inspector Paul gestured at the last of the retreating Marchmainers. 'They are bad men. You should not be with them.'

'The Marchmaine League? We weren't with them. We were sightseeing with the Albion Friendship Society and happened upon the Marchmainer parade.'

'They were going to the Town Hall,' Inspector Paul said. 'They were very angry. Very dangerous.'

'They didn't look angry. Determined, if anything. Quite disciplined, too.'

'Then why did they attack the police?'

'What?' George said. 'It looked to me as if the police attacked them.'

'Magic,' Aubrey said. 'It was magically inspired anger, setting both groups against each other.'

'You know magic?' Inspector Paul said. He frowned.

'A little.'

Inspector Paul pursed his lips. 'I see.'

Aubrey watched Inspector Paul's attitude change in front of his eyes. Concern was replaced with mistrust, and Aubrey stifled a sigh. It was something he'd seen before. Regular law enforcement officers were almost automatically wary of magic and magical investigation. This was why Tallis, head of Albion Special Services, and Craddock, the head of the Magisterium, had a strained relationship.

'Then who would cast such a spell?'

'Good question.' Aubrey had suspicions, but he wanted to examine them for himself before making them public.

Inspector Paul fixed Aubrey with his gaze, as if imagining him behind bars. 'Do not concern yourself with such matters. You are a guest in our city.'

He stalked off.

'Come on, old man,' George said, taking Aubrey's shoulders. 'We should go.'

'Caroline? We'll walk you home. It's on our way.'

'How do you know that?'

Aubrey opened his mouth and hoped that a plausible answer would come out, but Caroline waved it away. 'Oh, never mind.'

She led the way along the river, away from the police who were assembling and trying to reinstate some order in their ranks.

Aubrey dragged his weary, wet body after his friends. A ragged headache gnawed at his skull. He felt flat and drawn, but he tried to marshal his thoughts.

Setting the authorities against the Marchmainers could ignite a political crisis for Gallia. It was exactly the sort of thing his father had asked him to watch out for. He'd now seen it with his own eyes and could report that the tension was real, that the Marchmaine Independence League was an active force.

But who was using such potent magic to pit the Marchmainers against the authorities? What could they hope to gain?

Aubrey had answers, but he hoped he wasn't correct – for they all pointed toward war.

Five

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, AUBREY AND GEORGE decided to take breakfast at one of the open-air cafés in their neighbourhood. Brightly chequered tablecloths and bustling, white-aproned waiters made the place inviting. Aubrey automatically sat so that he could study passers-by.

George fretted over his pastries, playing with the pot of strawberry jam. 'You should have kept up your Gallian,' Aubrey said to him. He'd buttered a roll but when he lifted it to his mouth, he couldn't face it. He sipped his coffee, instead, and rubbed eyes that were gritty from a fitful sleep. 'Then you'd be able to read the newspapers.'

'Not sure I'm in the mood for light diversion,' George said. 'Last night's events have me on edge, rather.'

'You're not the only one.' Aubrey gestured at the quartet of police officers on the opposite side of the street and winced as pain rolled around inside his skull. 'Notice how they're not strolling, hands behind their back, as is the wont of the Lutetian police? They're much more businesslike.'

'Quite right, too. Ghastly affair.'

Aubrey put a hand to his temple.

'Not well, old man?' George asked.

Aubrey shrugged. Then, while George turned his attention to his breakfast, he used his magical senses to take stock of his condition.

He closed his eyes and probed. It didn't take long before he realised that things were not good. The balance he'd painstakingly achieved over the months since the experiment was no more. His soul had been jolted loose.

With growing pessimism, he tested himself by leaning back in his chair and stretching. Sharp pain in his shoulders and elbows made him clench his jaw. The joint pain and the excessive weariness were further signs.

He opened his eyes. 'The anger spell.'

'What?'

'Last night. The spell. I've been knocked around by it.'

'I didn't see you get angry.'

'No, it's affected me at a deeper level. My soul's coming loose again.'

'I see.' George made a face. 'That would mean you're not sleeping well, then. And it would explain why you've gone off your food.' He gestured at the untouched roll on Aubrey's plate.

Aubrey gave a wry smile. George noticed much more than people gave him credit for. 'It means I may have to reconsider my priorities. Locating the Faculty of Magic at the university is rather more important than it was.'

'How so?'

'I was hoping to find some help there for my condition.' He drummed his fingers on the table. 'It's difficult, George, trying to do the right thing for so many people.'

'I know, old man. Duty and all that.' He pointed his butter knife at Aubrey. 'Perhaps this is a time to be selfish. You won't be much good to others if you're . . . well . . . severely inconvenienced, as it were.'

'"Severely inconvenienced". I like that. Makes it sound eminently manageable. Like a bout of indigestion. Thank you, George.'

'Any time, old man. Now, you told me about the errands you've been asked to run, but I didn't catch the details. Care to share them now?'

Aubrey glanced around. The only other diner was an old man with a startling amount of grey hair sticking out from under a flat, black cap. He was reading a book and absently feeding pieces of bread to a small dog in his lap.

Aubrey doubted that the old man was making an effort to overhear their conversation, but he felt particularly cautious. He took a spell he'd prepared earlier, an application of the Law of Entanglement, and confined it to aural phenomena. It was a well-tested and refined spell and he rolled out the short series of Akkadian syllables under his breath.

He was taken aback, however, by how drained he was after casting the simple spell. He felt as if he'd run a serious cross-country race.

'Aubrey? What have you done?'

He gathered himself. 'I've just muffled our conversation. If anyone is more than a foot or so away, they won't be able to make out anything at all.'

'Good,' George said, but his expression was sceptical. 'I've checked under our table so we should be safe.'

'It seems as if much is happening in Gallian politics. The fiasco last night would suggest that there are forces arranged against the Marchmaine Independence League.'

'Well, the government would be, for a start.'

'But the government wouldn't set off a spell like that. The only reason to use such a thing would be so the authorities would blame the Marchmainers for the violence, while the Marchmainers would be certain it was the police who started it all.'

'Governments have done worse in the past,' George said darkly.

'When did you develop such a cynical streak, George? What happened to the sunny, open-faced country lad I used to know?'

'I started associating with you, I suppose. Since you dragged me into this politics business, helping your father win the election and all, I think I've begun to understand how far people can stoop in order to achieve their ends.'

Aubrey had to agree. When the prize was power, there seemed to be little that some people wouldn't do.

'George, I have a problem. A number of problems. But my main problem is which problem to worry about first.'

'You know, old man, Lady Rose would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you. It's my duty to keep an eye on you.'

George's devotion to Aubrey's mother was one of the few things left unsaid between the two friends. Aubrey was quite happy to let George mask it under the pretence of 'duty'.

'I need to find out more about the Marchmaine situation before I can make any meaningful enquiries. But I have those other tasks – for my grandmother, my mother, and myself.'

'And the Crown Prince. Don't forget him.'

Aubrey chewed his lip for a moment. 'What if we find this Dr Romellier for my mother, and while we're at the university I can look for the Faculty of Magic? After lunch we can make our way to the Cathedral of Our Lady. Bertie suggested I start there on this quest for his ancestors.'

'A full and fine day,' George said. He brushed crumbs off his chest. 'What about Caroline?'

'I didn't arrange this holiday solely as an excuse to see her, you know.'

'Really?

'Well, not entirely.' He stood. 'We may be able to catch up with her this evening, she said. She has a full day of practical work.'

'Lucky girl.'

THE UNIVERSITY OF LUTETIA WAS MUCH AS OTHER VENERABLE institutions of higher learning – a hotchpotch of buildings, paths, lawns and gardens that had grown in many different directions at many different times. As Aubrey walked around the perimeter of the large city block, he tried to judge from the architectural styles when each faculty had reached the height of importance. The Law Faculty was obviously one of the early achievers if its gaunt gothic-arched buildings were any guide. Theology, in the north-western part of the campus, harked back to an even earlier era, a blocky warren of buildings that Aubrey was sure would be dark inside. Its major feature was the belltower that had offended Dr Romellier. Science, Philosophy, Mathematics and Arts were all imposing, designed to impress and establish themselves as serious areas of scholarship.

Aubrey and George stood on the street with their backs to the Theology belltower. Aubrey kept an eye open for bicycles, which seemed to be ridden solely by maniacs to whom the difference between street and pavement meant nothing.

Across from the university, an unattractive tenement building faced them – about a hundred years old, four storeys of drab brick, rendered grey. Dozens of windows gazed down on them, mournfully. Aubrey thought it had all the architectural flair of a cliff.

'If Dr Romellier was disturbed by the Theology bells, then his rooms must be up there somewhere,' Aubrey said, pointing. He drew back his hand just in time to avoid decapitating a cyclist.

'I suppose we should just start knocking on doors,' George said. 'What's Gallian for "Hello, are you Dr Romellier?"'

Aubrey shrugged and winced at the dull pain in his shoulders. 'Perhaps we can find a porter or someone in charge.'

George tilted his head back and stared at the sky. 'I don't think we need to do that, old man.'

'What is it?'

'Bird expert, this Dr Romellier, isn't he?'

'That's what Mother said.'

'Now, if I were a renowned expert on birds, what do you think my hobbies would be if I lived in the middle of the city?'

Aubrey gazed upwards, shading his eyes. 'Hobbies?'

'Pigeons, old man. Let's go and see if Dr Romellier keeps a pigeon loft.'

THE ROOF OF THE TENEMENT BUILDING GAVE A FINE VIEW of the university grounds. Aubrey was pleased to see a few small patches of greenery that had escaped the urge to build bigger, taller faculty fiefdoms.

The pigeon loft was a substantial construction. No ramshackle assembly of cast-off building material, this large rectangular bird mansion looked as if it was strong enough to withstand a Force 10 storm.

George squinted through the wire. 'They're pigeons, all right. Lots of them.'

'I'm glad I brought an authority,' Aubrey said. He made sure he stood upwind of the loft. Even though it was well cared for, the smell of pigeon droppings was eyewatering.

'I had to learn something, being raised on a farm,' George said. 'Animals, birds, agricultural machinery, I'm your man.'

Aubrey scanned the surroundings. The rooftop sported pipes, ventilators, enigmatic shafts and doors that led to stairwells. Which would take them to Dr Romellier?

A whirring overhead made him look up. A flock of pigeons swooped low, then veered off again to circle the building. Aubrey shielded his eyes from the sun, but was startled by a barrage of angry shouting. He dropped his hand and saw a short, bald man hobbling toward them, waving a stick that would have been better used to help him walk.

George nudged him. 'What's he saying?'

'He's threatening to report us to the association.'

'What association?'

'The Pigeon Racing Association.'

The old man came closer, jabbing at them with his stick and keeping up a torrent of angry Gallian.

'He says that he's been waiting for us,' translated Aubrey, 'and now he's caught us red-handed.'

'How does he come to that conclusion? We could just pitch him off the roof.'

'He says he's been on the lookout for whoever's been nobbling – that's not the Gallian word for it, of course – his best birds. Oh, and the police have been called and we're not to move.'

The man's abuse wound down and he fixed them with a beady eye that looked remarkably like that of his charges. Aubrey took the opportunity to ask him if he knew Dr Romellier.

This set the pigeon man off in another torrent, but this time smiling broadly.

'It appears, George, that if we're friends of Dr Romellier, all is forgiven. This was the good doctor's loft and the home of his scientifically bred flock, which he gave to this man, Monsieur Moir. He asks forgiveness for his suspicions, but bad men have been poisoning his birds.'

'Does he know where Dr Romellier is?'

This query brought forth a shrug. Further questions revealed that Dr Romellier had disappeared some months ago. No goodbyes, no forwarding address.

They left Monsieur Moir berating a hungry-looking cat that had foolishly come within fifty yards of the pigeon loft. Aubrey didn't fancy its chances.

Back on the street, he looked up at the tenement again. The windows were identical, anonymous. 'To the university, George. Dr Romellier can wait for another day. Let's find this Faculty of Magic.'

'If we can cross the street without being run down,' George said as a pair of gowned cyclists careered around a corner and drifted toward them. They were conducting a heated argument and paying no attention to the road in front of them.

'Put your best foot forward, then.'

Aubrey and George ducked through an arch and came out into a paved courtyard. Five minutes later, they were lost in a maze of narrow lanes and steep-roofed stone buildings. Aubrey stood in the middle of a small courtyard trying to get his bearings. George examined a large camellia with all the intensity of someone who knows very little about gardening but wants to appear as if he did. Students hurried through the sunny space, avoiding the path and crossing via a well-worn track in the grass. A professor wandered along, staring at the sky and muttering, before disappearing through an open gate.

'A map would be a fine idea,' Aubrey said. Grateful for the chance to rest his weary legs, he sat on a bench that was against the sandstone wall of an anonymous building. He took care to avoid the pigeon droppings.

'We're the only ones who don't know where we're going.'

'Which means all these other people do.'

'Exactly.'

While George smiled, Aubrey asked a number of students for directions to the Faculty of Magic. The results were not encouraging. Most were puzzled by the request, claiming that no such faculty existed. Some were horrified. But one ancient professor thought he remembered it being on the western side of the campus, near the Library.

On the other side of the courtyard was a small walkway. It led to a large plaza overlooked by three- and four-storey buildings that varied widely in their ages, but not their elegance. The plaza was paved with red brick, but the harshness of this was broken by small, cylindrical conifers encircled by bench seats. It seemed to be a popular meeting place.

George drew Aubrey back into the archway. 'What is it?' Aubrey asked.

'You'll never believe it.'

Aubrey always felt that this sort of statement placed a low estimation on his powers of imagination. 'Tell me.'

'Hugo von Stralick.'

'He's here?'

'That's him, over there, charming those two girls.'

Aubrey couldn't believe it. They'd run into the Holmland spy in the tangle of events surrounding Dr Tremaine's plot to tip Albion into war. The last Aubrey had heard of von Stralick was that he'd fled the country to avoid being arrested.

Von Stralick was leaning against a pillar that supported an arched colonnade. He was dressed in an immaculate dark-blue suit. His white kid gloves almost shone in the sun. Aubrey grinned. 'Let's see what he's up to.'

They managed to stay out of von Stralick's sight by keeping to the colonnade and behind the knots of students hurrying between lectures. When they reached von Stralick's pillar, Aubrey stepped out one side, while George appeared from the other.

'Ah, Hugo!' Aubrey said. 'Won't you introduce us to your friends?'

Apart from a momentary widening of his eyes, von Stralick was unfazed. 'Ah, Fitzwilliam, Doyle,' he said, as if he'd seen them only five minutes ago. 'Lola and Marie were just leaving, weren't you, my dears?'

Lola and Marie were young, well-dressed, and looked as if this was the last thing they'd been thinking. They made their farewells, with a few backward glances.

'I say, von Stralick,' George said, 'did you have to send them off like that? They seemed dashed friendly.'

'They were spies, George,' Aubrey said. 'Von Stralick wouldn't want us around while they discussed Holmland's espionage activities.'

Von Stralick looked pained. 'Informants, not spies. And information gathering is not espionage. Really, Fitzwilliam, was I this rude when I was in Albion?'

'This is Gallia, not Holmland.' Aubrey took a step backward. 'You've done a fine job with your hair. You'd hardly notice your ear at all. And the gloves hide your missing finger beautifully.'

Von Stralick smiled. 'If you think you can make me lose my temper and reveal all Holmland's plans, then you're wrong.'

'Still junior attaché at your embassy?'

'Under-secretary for Cultural Affairs. A promotion.'

'A spy is still a spy,' George said.

'What do you care? This is Gallia, as you pointed out.'

'And Gallia is an Albion ally,' Aubrey said. 'An important Albion ally.'

Von Stralick beamed. 'But enough about me. What about you two? What are you doing in Lutetia?'

'We're part of a magical operation,' Aubrey said. 'We're planning to awaken the ten thousand mystic warriors who are sleeping under Lutetia waiting to defend the city in its time of greatest need.'

Von Stralick frowned, then grinned. 'You will have your Albion jokes.' He studied Aubrey's face. 'You do not look so well, Fitzwilliam. Is the Gallian food not agreeing with you?'

Aubrey was choosing between a few plausible responses when a scream came from the other side of the courtyard. Before he could locate the source, it sounded again.

Aubrey turned back to von Stralick, only to find him gone.

He didn't have time to look for him. More shrieks and cries of horror came from the far side of the square. People were now streaming toward them, fleeing from the disturbance.

George scowled. 'Von Stralick?'

'Don't worry about him. What's going on over there?'

'I don't suppose we could simply leave it be? No, I didn't think so.'

Aubrey led the way toward the disturbance. It was difficult moving against the surge of the crowd, but he skirted garden beds and vaulted benches until he and George reached the gap between the buildings that appeared to be the source of the noise.

A growl came from ahead, then a throaty cough that turned into a moan. 'Someone's hurt,' George said and he started forward.

Aubrey grabbed his arm. 'No.Wait.'

The telltale tingle of magic had made Aubrey pause. He was trying to locate its source when a lurching, drooling creature blundered through the archway, eyes vacant, hands clutching at the air.

George stifled an oath. Aubrey danced back a step or two, his skin suddenly cold at the thought of its touch. Another one, he thought with dismay.

The dispossessed one had once been a young woman. She was dressed in her best clothes, as if she'd been about to go to church – dark-blue jacket and dress, white gloves. She wore a large hat, but it had come astray and was dragging on her shoulders. Her hair hung loose and bedraggled.

She lunged at them. Desperately, Aubrey dragged George around the corner away from the shambling menace. They stood with their backs to the office of the university's maintenance department. 'What's that smell?'

'Smell? Aubrey, have you taken leave of your senses?'

'No. This is important.'

George frowned and sniffed the air. 'Smoke.'

'Wood smoke?'

'No. Like fireworks.'

'I thought so.' He caught George's expression. 'I'll tell you later.'

Another tortured moan. 'What can we do for her?' George asked.

'Stop her from hurting anyone. Restrain her, keep her safe until the authorities come.' Aubrey peeped around the corner as another scream arose. 'But we have to act now.'

'Isn't anyone doing anything?'

'No. It's up to us.'

He darted out. On the other side of the archway, the space between the two buildings opened into a covered gallery supported by slender, cast-iron pillars. It was empty, apart from the soulless horror and a terrified charwoman who had dropped her bucket and mop. She cowered against the wall and covered her eyes.

Aubrey moved into the vacant-eyed woman's field of vision, flapping his arms. 'Here! Here!' In an instant George was by his side, jumping around and waving.

The horror staggered back from the charwoman, then lumbered around, seeking the source of this noisy interruption. 'Good,' Aubrey said. He refused to be taken prisoner by panic, no matter how much he felt like it.

'Now, George, you keep her distracted while I work on a spell.'

George glanced at Aubrey. 'Be quick about it, old man, if you would.'

'I'll do my best.'

George moved to one side, still waving his arms and shouting, doing his best to keep the woman's attention. She moaned and drooled, then lurched at him, but he skipped back and slid to one side. He shoved her shoulder, putting her off balance, and quickly moved away.

In the meantime, Aubrey was rehearsing a spell. It was a simple binding spell, something he'd used a thousand times. It applied the Law of Cohesion and the Law of Elastic Deformation. It could be strengthened in intensity or lengthened in duration by careful variation of parameters.

This application was simple. All he wanted to do was to manacle the woman's feet, hobbling them, and bind her arms to her side. He knew it would tax his energy, given his declining state, but there was little else he could do.

He focused on the empty one as she grappled with George, and began.

The first few syllables came easily, but Aubrey was shocked when the subsequent syllables were awkward on his tongue. What should have been a straightforward spell became a struggle. He started to sweat as the individual spell elements seemed to resist his pronouncing them. His muscles began to tremble and his head throbbed abominably.

The final syllables fell from his lips and Aubrey immediately knew that he'd botched the spell. A handful of dull shreds – flimsy fragments, quite unlike the robust bonds he'd been attempting to summon – appeared and fell to the flagstones. They shrivelled and vanished.

'Stop messing about, old man,' George called. 'I'm in a spot of bother here.'

Dazed, Aubrey stared at where the shreds had fallen. It was a simple spell. He should have been able to cast it in his sleep.

He realised his hands were trembling. Pain burned in the small joints of his knuckles. He clenched his teeth and then hissed as his jaw became two bright spots of agony where it hinged. A wave of terrible fatigue swept through him and he thought he was about to collapse.

A grunt brought Aubrey back to his surroundings. George was backing away from the shambling woman. With the back of one hand, he smeared at a trickle of blood on his cheek, his face a grimace that combined fear and uncertainty.

Aubrey shook himself. His condition might be parlous, but his friend was in danger. Ignoring the pain, he brought his hands together and clasped them, tightly, to stop the trembling. Then he began the spell again.

This time, the syllables rolled smoothly off his tongue, each one articulated clearly, with no dangerous elisions or slurring. After uttering the final element, a glowing ribbon flipped through the air and wrapped itself around the woman's ankles.

Aubrey let out a sigh of relief, but before he could examine his condition again the woman tottered and started to fall backward, making no effort to cushion her fall. Aghast, Aubrey saw that her head was going to smash on the stone.

He flung himself, catching her by the shoulders and grating his elbows on the flagstones. But instead of being grateful, she reached up and clawed at his face, snarling. Without letting go, he jerked his head back and tucked in his chin to protect his throat. 'George!'

'Right here.'

George grabbed at the woman's arms, but she wrenched them away. 'Look out!' Aubrey cried and George barely avoided having his ear bitten off.

Aubrey eased her to the ground then leapt back. 'Hold up her arms!'

George struggled, then seized both wrists. Aubrey chanted the spell again. Another glowing loop appeared and bound the woman's wrists.

Panting, George stepped back and glared at her. 'She tried to make a meal of my ear.' He sounded more offended than afraid.

The woman thrashed on the ground. Aubrey wiped his brow. The pain in his joints had receded somewhat, but still lay there like coals ready to burst into flame. 'I should have done the hands first. Idiot.' The woman settled and growled. Her face and eyes remained as blank as new paper.

Aubrey became aware that people were drawing closer. They were fearful, but curious, and soon were crowding around the unfortunate woman. Students, he decided, with a few professors elbowing for room and trying not to appear undignified.

A figure at the rear caught Aubrey's gaze. A slender man in a grey flannel suit and a grey trilby. He had one hand in his pocket and, when he noticed Aubrey's attention, he stepped back behind a pillar. Aubrey went to move in that direction, but before he could follow, a uniformed police officer stepped through the crowd.

'Ah, Fitzwilliam,' he said, in his stylishly accented Albionish. 'It is you again.'

'Inspector Paul.' Aubrey straightened his tie and tried to look as law-abiding as possible.

Inspector Paul gestured and four constables appeared with straps and heavy belts. 'I take it this is your spell work?' Inspector Paul asked Aubrey. 'Would you please cancel it?'

'Do you think that's wise?'

'My men are experienced. There will be no danger.'

Aubrey gathered himself and cast the short negation spell. Before the soulless woman could react, Inspector Paul's squad bound her until she couldn't move. With smooth efficiency, they lifted her and disappeared through the crowd.

'Now,' Inspector Paul said, 'I believe I will have to ask you to come with me to the police station. I have some questions that need to be asked.'

Not a good time, Inspector. 'I'm afraid I can't do that. Not at the moment. I have business to attend to.' Some rest and some restorative spells, for a start.

'I can insist.'

Aubrey had some sympathy for Inspector Paul. He also didn't want to make an enemy who could make his life difficult in Lutetia. On the other hand, he had no desire to subject himself to the notoriously labyrinthine Gallian police procedures, where, it was rumoured, people had died of old age waiting to be questioned.

He held up a hand and smiled with what he hoped was the right amount of apology. 'I'm keen to help, Inspector, but I'm sure this matter can wait, can it not?'

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, AUBREY AND GEORGE WERE IN an office on the third floor of the Lutetian Police Headquarters with a stony-faced Inspector Paul tapping a pen on an inkwell. The sound set Aubrey's teeth on edge.

'So, tell me again how your presence at three bizarre disturbances is simply coincidence,' Inspector Paul said. 'And how you had nothing to do with any of them.'

'What can I tell you that I haven't told you already?' Aubrey did his best to sound conciliatory. 'I'm as baffled as you are.'

'And you?' Inspector Paul shot at George.

'Many strange things happen around Aubrey. I'm accustomed to it.'

Before Inspector Paul could follow up this scrap of information, the door to the office was flung open. A tall woman in a flowing robe with an iridescent green belt wafted in. She smiled at Aubrey and George.

'Mrs Hepworth,' Aubrey blurted, jumping to his feet, quickly followed by George and the Inspector.

She addressed herself to Inspector Paul, in flawless Gallian. 'I've come to take these two young men away.'

The police officer goggled, as well he might. Ophelia Hepworth was a striking woman – tall, with glossy black hair tumbling around her shoulders and only kept in check by a carelessly tied strip of blue silk. She had huge, dark eyes.

After several false starts, Inspector Paul managed to form a complete sentence. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Your Director of Police.' She handed the Inspector a letter. 'This is his stationery and signature, is it not?'

Inspector Paul nodded, not trusting his voice. He stared at the letter, taking a few moments before he remembered to read it.

'He thanks you for your diligence,' Mrs Hepworth went on, 'and he's sure you'll come to the same conclusion he has: that these two are unfortunates caught up in events not of their making.'

'I see.' Inspector Paul straightened. He brushed at the lapels of his jacket. 'Madame. They are yours.'

Mrs Hepworth swept out. Aubrey and George followed, like acolytes attending their high priestess. Outside, on a polished wooden bench, with the late afternoon sun filtering through a grimy window, was Caroline.

She stood and pecked her mother on the cheek. 'Thank you.'

'My pleasure, darling.'

Caroline put her hands on her hips and shook her head. 'Aubrey. George. What have you been up to?'

THE HEPWORTHS' APARTMENT WAS RIGHT BEHIND THE Cathedral of Our Lady, and it was startling. Aubrey had never been inside a Moorish villa, but he imagined that if a sultan's inner sanctum was crossed with a stylish Lutetian salon, the result would look rather like the place where he was currently reclining.

Enormous stretches of coloured silk hung from the ceiling. With the windows open to the evening air the whole room rippled and sighed. It was like being inside a very large, mostly quiescent, animal.

Beaded curtains hung over doorways, while incense burned in brass pots on mantles and shelves. Small mirrors on the walls glinted as the light caught them. Camphorwood boxes served as low tables and rainbow-coloured cushions were scattered between wicker chairs and velvet divans. The room smelled of spice, sandalwood and rosewater.

In keeping with the Moorish theme, Mrs Hepworth held a glass of peppermint tea in a silver zarf. She smiled at Aubrey and George over the top of it. 'And so when Caroline told me you were being held by the police I contacted Louis. He was only too willing to help.'

Aubrey had grown used to Mrs Hepworth's habit of referring to important people only by their first names. 'Louis is the Director of Police?'

'He's a cultured man for a Director of Police. He'd much rather be in charge of the Opera than the constabulary, but he's a servant of the people.'

George was lolling in the grasp of an enormous apricot pillow. He nibbled on a chocolate truffle and looked very pleased with himself. 'Thank him for us, will you, Mrs Hepworth?'

'Ophelia, George dear.' She put her coffee cup on a small lacquered tray. 'I like my name and I like others to use it.'

George nodded. 'Good chocolate.'

Aubrey had been avoiding looking at Caroline, which ran counter to his natural impulses. All the way in the cab from the Police Headquarters to the Hepworths' residence he'd been aware of her displeasure. Here, in her own home, he felt like an insect about to be skewered on a specimen board for eternity. He didn't like the feeling, so decided to do something about it.

He turned to her. After enjoying the sight for a split second, he ventured an opening gambit. 'How did you know we were with the police?' Good, he thought. Neutral, intelligent, a fine start.

'It was Claude.'

'Claude?' Aubrey raised his eyebrows.

'Claude Duval, the director of the play. He saw you being arrested.'

'We weren't arrested. I made sure of that by volunteering to go with the Inspector. George? Is something wrong?'

'No, nothing.' George mopped his chin with a napkin. 'Piece of chocolate went down the wrong way.'

Caroline pressed on. 'You were saying that you volunteered to go with the Inspector.'

'Yes. And you were saying that Claude was spending some time with you.'

'I didn't. But he had. And it's none of your business.'

Aubrey and Caroline glared at each other. Mrs Hepworth tut-tutted. 'Enough, enough.' She glanced at George. 'My daughter has always been headstrong. And your friend?'

'Aubrey? Headstrong? Only in every way imaginable.'

'It's like watching a duel, isn't it? But one that's not over after a shot apiece.'

'Mother.' Caroline pursed her lips.

'Of course, darling.' Mrs Hepworth put her chin on her hand. 'I was only too glad when Caroline wanted to come to Lutetia. Since my dear Lionel passed away, I'd been unable to paint at all. I felt Lutetia could start my painting again.'

'And has it?' Aubrey asked, glad for the change of topic.

'Oh yes. I could hardly help but paint once we arrived. Seeing so many of my old friends again, visiting the galleries . . . Here, I inhale art with every breath.'

Aubrey softened. Mrs Hepworth, for all her airs, wasn't a play-artist, a dabbler. She had a reputation as one of the most original painters of her generation. 'It's good for you, this city?'

'Oh yes. It has helped.' She turned away. 'With the grief.'

Aubrey looked at Mrs Hepworth's striking profile, then he glanced at Caroline. She was staring out of the window at the bright lights of the Exposition Tower.

Mrs Hepworth's husband – Caroline's father – had been an accidental victim of the tangled series of plots within plots that Dr Mordecai Tremaine had constructed. Professor Hepworth had died from the effects of Dr Tremaine's concentrated terror magic. Aubrey had never forgotten Dr Tremaine's chilling indifference over the death of someone he'd once called a friend.

Mrs Hepworth's grief had always been apparent. Caroline was more controlled, but Aubrey knew her sorrow was as deep and as heartfelt. Her restraint was one of the things about her that fascinated him.

Mrs Hepworth rose. 'I think it's time to retire. It's been a full day.'

Aubrey and George stood. 'We should go.'

'I'll see them out, Mother,' Caroline said, and Aubrey was pleased. He may have a chance to salvage the situation before leaving.

Aubrey and George waited on the landing outside the door to the apartment. The lift clanked and rattled its way between floors. Aubrey couldn't tell if it was going up or down, but he hoped it would take some time to get there.

George snorted at the wrought-iron doors. 'I don't trust these lift contraptions. I'll take the stairs. Meet you at the front door, old man. Good night, Caroline.'

You're a brick, George, Aubrey thought. Now, one last try. He cleared his throat and smiled at Caroline. 'I didn't thank you for getting us out of a sticky situation. At the police station.'

'No, you didn't.'

Aubrey heard the steel in her voice, but ploughed on. 'Unforgivable of me. So I offer my thanks now. Unreservedly.'

Caroline frowned a little, as if considering this. 'Very well. I accept your thanks.'

'And now can we perhaps talk without hostilities?'

'Hostilities? I don't know what you're talking about.'

Let that one pass, Aubrey thought. 'How are your studies? Are you still corresponding with my mother?'

'I had a letter yesterday. She's well, if you're wondering, and so is your father.'

'Good, good.' He wished he knew more about taxonomy. 'What would you say is the most difficult area of classification?'

'Don't worry, Aubrey.' She smiled, a brief sunburst that made Aubrey take a sharp breath. 'No need to grope around like that. Let it be said that I'm thinking harder than I've ever done before, and I'm enjoying every minute of it. It's challenging, daunting, overwhelming, but rewarding.' Her face glowed. 'And what are you up to?' she asked.

Aubrey blinked and realised he'd been staring at her. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Your plans. You're at leisure, so what are you planning to do?'

Unprepared, he plucked for the first item that came to hand from his to-do list. 'Church.'

'Church?'

'Cathedral of Our Lady.'

'Ah, I haven't visited, even though it's so close. They say it has the finest stained glass in all Gallia.'

'Yes, well, as far as stained glass goes, it'd be hard to find any that's finer. Very . . . transparent.'

'You're not interested in the stained glass, are you?'

'Not solely,' Aubrey said, and congratulated himself on the retrieval. 'I'm more interested in tombs. Fascinated, really.'

'I never knew.'

'One can learn a lot from tombs.' Aubrey warmed to his subject. 'An entire education, most likely.'

'Such as?'

'Well, different sorts of marble, for a start.' You've done it again, Aubrey, he thought, painted yourself into a corner. 'Inscriptions. Heraldry. That sort of thing.'

'Really.'

He grinned. 'I wouldn't have a clue, actually.'

'That was fairly obvious, but I'm glad you admitted it. I think you need to be reminded that you're fallible, at least every now and then.'

Aubrey decided that he'd examine that later to determine if it was a compliment or not. 'A friend asked me to do some genealogy research for him. Our Lady's is a good place to start.'

'May I join you?' Caroline asked, tentatively. 'When you visit the cathedral?'

'What?' Aubrey composed himself. 'Of course. We'd be delighted.'

'Good. It sounds as if it might be fun,' Caroline said.

'We'll pick you up at eight,' Aubrey managed to say. He repeated the words to himself and was reasonably sure he'd had them in the right order.

The lift arrived. Aubrey backed through the doors, closed them, and waved foolishly at the gently smiling and glorious Caroline Hepworth.

Aubrey found himself beaming all the way home.

Six

BREAKFAST AT MADAME CALVERT'S WAS SO FINE THAT George was extremely reluctant to miss it. Aubrey promised he'd make it up by selecting from the many cafés they passed. This mollified George and he treated the whole city as a gigantic buffet, choosing a pastry here, a hot chocolate there.

So, despite their early departure, they were actually late arriving at the Hepworths' apartment on the Isle of the Crown, right in the middle of the Sequane River.

Caroline was waiting on the doorstep. Aubrey saw she wasn't wearing a hat. Instead, her hair was caught up at the back of her head in a roll, pinned with a tortoiseshell comb that was carved with geometric interlacing. Her skirt was long and plain, with large buttons down the front, gathered with a white belt at her waist. At least, he told himself, that was all he noticed in the brief glance he gave her.

She wasn't tapping her foot, but she looked as if she wished to. 'Shall we go?'

Aubrey had had experience with Caroline's walking. When she was making for a specific destination, she didn't mince along, but strode purposefully. Aubrey had prepared himself for this eventuality by wearing his most comfortable boots instead of his most stylish. This helped somewhat, but this morning his knees were aching with a brittle, dreary pain that gnawed with each step. His weariness had not deserted him either, and George's gorging at breakfast had left Aubrey feeling slightly nauseated.

He admitted – to himself – that he was concerned over his physical condition, but he was reasonably confident that if things didn't worsen, he could manage. After all, he'd coped in the past.

Even though the Hepworths' apartment was close to Our Lady's, the maze that was the Isle of the Crown meant they had to take a circuitous route to get to the front of the cathedral. It was early and the narrow streets were already busy. Delivery carts, cabs and workers were making their way on their daily rounds. The aromas of coffee and baking bread signalled that a thousand breakfasts were being eaten in the cafés and apartments they passed.

'Remarkable place,' Aubrey said as they strode along, 'the Cathedral of Our Lady.'

'In what way?' Caroline glanced at him. 'Because it's the main cathedral of the city? Because the second crusade was launched from its steps? Or because it's hosted coronations, royal weddings and christenings for seven hundred years?'

'Don't forget that it's at the exact geographic centre of Lutetia.' He stepped around a street sweeper. 'It seems as if we've both read the same guidebook.'

Caroline gave a cheeky smile, taking Aubrey by surprise. 'We may have something in common, after all.'

Aubrey was about to begin itemising all the things he'd catalogued that they had in common when Caroline arched an eyebrow and resumed their journey.

Aubrey was taken aback at Caroline's unexpected playfulness, and rather enjoyed it. His spirits lifted and he found it easier to ignore the nagging pain in his back. He whistled a jaunty tune until George pointed out that he was scaring the stray dogs.

Besotted, he thought. He rolled the word around and accepted that it fitted. Besotted.

Ice-cream vendors wheeled their carts around the square in front of Our Lady's, optimistically looking for early business. Aubrey stood a moment and admired the steeples, the flying buttresses, the enormous rose window and the phlegmatic gargoyles who had little to do on the warm, cloudless morning.

The church doors were open. Aubrey's eyes took a moment to recover, moving from the bright daylight to the relative darkness of the interior, but once they had he stood just inside the narthex – the enclosed area before the church proper – marvelling.

At the eastern end, pews were arranged in front of the altar. A few worshippers were praying while visitors kept close to the walls, examining tombs and inscriptions, daunted by the immense space.

Aubrey shivered. This was a place where silent contemplation had gone on for centuries. For generations, people had spent time pondering the fate of their souls, wondering about life, death and what it held for them. Surrounded by this accumulation of introspection, Aubrey felt the transience of human existence. The solidity of every pillar, every block of stone, every tomb contrasted with it, remaining in place while thousands of lives passed.

He bowed his head. For a moment, he took time to consider the fate of his own soul. The nearness of the true death made him conscious of the importance of life and the need to amount to something. He was determined his existence wouldn't be a meaningless one.

I will make something of my life, he promised himself. And if I trip over feet along the way, they're going to be mine.

When he lifted his head he saw a group of visitors nearby. One of them appeared familiar, but Aubrey was more interested in the maps that several held, orienting themselves. 'I wonder where we can get one,' Aubrey muttered to George.

'One what?'

'A map. It'd be helpful. I don't know where to start. Bertie's notes are cryptic, to say the least.'

A voice came from Aubrey's left. He nearly jumped. 'My name is Sister Claire. Can I help you?'

The nun had been standing near the entrance, obviously with the duty of assisting bemused visitors. She was a young woman with arresting green eyes. Smiling at Aubrey, she continued in Albionish. 'From Albion, are you not?'

'Indeed, Sister.' Aubrey introduced himself and his friends.

'Would you like a tour? Or is there something in particular that you would like to see?'

Aubrey wasn't sure why he hesitated to reveal his plans. Perhaps caution was growing customary. 'A general tour would be helpful, Sister.'

'Excellent,' Sister Claire said. 'It's a marvellous cathedral. We're very proud of it, even though the upkeep is very, very costly.'

George was the first to take the hint. He reached inside his jacket for his wallet. 'I don't suppose there's anywhere to make a donation, is there, Sister? Can't have a place like this falling into ruin.'

'There is a donation box just inside the entrance.' Sister Claire smiled, dimpling.

Sister Claire was bright and chatty; Aubrey could see why she'd been chosen for visitor duty. She took them into the wide central aisle, pews stretching away on either side, and ushered them to a spot in the nave. 'Look up,' she said, and had them face the rose window over the entrance.

Aubrey smiled as they were bathed in reds, greens, yellows and blues. 'It's like being wrapped in a rainbow.'

'It's one of my favourite places in the whole cathedral,' Sister Claire said. Her face was dappled red and blue. 'Don't tell the Mother Superior, though. She thinks I need to spend more time praying and less time smiling.'

'You live here, in the convent?' Caroline asked.

'Yes. It's a wonderful place.'

'It's your choice, this life?'

Aubrey tensed. He knew that Caroline had very modern views about the role of women. How would she view women who devoted themselves totally to the service of others?

Sister Claire frowned, confused. 'This life?'

'Becoming a nun.'

'I'm not sure if it's a matter of choosing.'

'But it was your decision?'

'Oh yes. My family tried to convince me not to.'

Caroline looked satisfied. 'Very well then.'

Rather than be offended, Sister Claire was amused. 'If you'll come this way.'

She conducted Aubrey, George and Caroline around the walls of the cathedral, moving in an anti-clockwise direction, she explained, to fit in with the other nuns who were also guiding visitors.

The immense space both magnified and muffled sounds. Whispers became murmurs that moved in vague burbles of sound, rolling off the hard marble surfaces and chasing each other into the heights.

Tombs and memorials were set into the walls. Some were austere, some were flamboyant and baroque, but none bore names that Aubrey recognised from Bertie's notes. Mixed in with prominent clergy were more than a few nobles, but occasionally an artist or a soldier was honoured with a place in the foremost church in Gallia. It was a mark of respect accorded to few, Sister Claire pointed out, and only those who'd done something special for their country.

When they reached the transept, Sister Claire paused. 'The convent opens off here. If you like, I'll show you the cloisters. They're very fine, very peaceful.'

Aubrey couldn't deny her. 'By all means, Sister.'

A dusty, wood-lined passage took them from the cathedral. Aubrey spied a narrow doorway. 'The convent is through there?'

Sister Claire shook her head. 'The convent is at the western end of the cloisters. That's the entrance to the Chapel of the Heart.'

'Can we see inside?' Caroline asked.

'Of course. It's very simple compared to the cathedral, but it's very special.'

The Chapel of the Heart was tiny, no more than a dozen paces in length. The ceiling was low, and appeared lower after the lofty extravagance of the cathedral. It was a plain, rectangular chamber with no windows. A simple altar stood at the far end. The body of the chapel was filled with backless benches and a narrow aisle ran up the middle. Candles and a single lamp illuminated the space.

It was close, but Aubrey didn't feel confined. The tiny place had a comfortable scale and, in some ways, was more human than the cathedral's magnificence.

He stopped, frowning, and rubbed his hands together. Magic was hereabout, of a deep and primeval kind, but where was it?

'Oh.' Caroline's voice was full of wonder. Aubrey glanced to find that she was staring at a niche in the western end of the chapel. He came closer to see what had taken her attention so completely.

The alcove was unadorned, bare stone, windowless. A nun sat and gazed back at them with such tranquillity that Aubrey was quite dazed. She was young, younger even than Sister Claire. In her simple habit she looked complete, perfect, as if she wanted for nothing at all. When she smiled at them, it was with such overwhelming goodness that Aubrey nearly wept. Then she dropped her gaze to her lap.

Nestled in her hands was a golden heart.

It was the size of a large man's fist. Its surface was dull, but it glowed with a lustre that was seemed to come from deep within.

Aubrey's breath caught in his throat. A profound, slow pulse of magic was coming from the golden heart. It rippled outwards with the majesty of a deep ocean swell.

'The soul of Gallia,' Sister Claire said. 'The Heart of Gold.'

'I didn't know it was here,' Caroline murmured.'But it makes sense: the heart of the country residing in the middle of the country.'

'We don't hide the fact, but we don't trumpet it about,' Sister Claire said. 'This is its rightful place.'

Aubrey didn't like being nonplussed. But here he was, totally at a loss. He saw the rapt faces of the three women as they stared at the Heart of Gold.

'I've never heard of it,' George said softly. For a moment, Aubrey regretted missing the chance to honestly profess his ignorance, but it passed.

'My mother told me about it,' Caroline said. 'The legend is that Gallia will never fall as long as the Heart of Gold remains here.'

'This chapel was here before the cathedral, at the very middle of Gallia,' Sister Claire said. 'Our convent, too. It is the duty of our order to hold the Heart of Gold, for it needs to be cradled by a living person. If it is parted from the presence of a human being, it will die and our nation will not endure.'

George scratched his head. 'She must be older than she looks.'

Sister Claire dimpled again. 'It is Sister Anne's turn now, but we take our duty in shifts, as you would say. Our order has provided an unbroken line of attendants for over eight hundred years.'

'That must be reassuring,' Aubrey said. 'Especially in such troubled times.'

'It means much to every Gallian to know that the Heart of Gold is with them. It is the basis of our nation, much more so than kings or queens or presidents. With it, Gallia endures.'

Aubrey stared. He could feel its intense magic. He gnawed his lip and tried to banish the thought, but his mind kept circling it: What happens if it's lost?

Sister Claire ushered them out.

The cloisters were special, as she had promised. The regular, pointed arches opened onto a green sward bordered with rose bushes. They walked along the covered way, Sister Claire pointing out the garden of medicinal herbs on the eastern edge of the long convent building. It was a paradise for bees and they droned about engrossed in their labours. Caroline leaned down and picked a sprig of lavender. Aubrey enjoyed the soft fragrance of thyme and lemon balm. He followed Caroline's lead, but plucked rosemary instead and rolled it between his hands. The fresh, green woodiness tickled his nose.

It was idyllic, restful. Aubrey began to forget his aches and weariness in the drowsy, herbal warmth.

'Lovely,' he said.

'It feels safe,' Caroline said. 'A refuge.'

Aubrey was intrigued, but before he could question her a scream echoed along the cloistered way. Aubrey dropped the rosemary. 'It came from back there,' George said, already running.

Sister Claire put a hand to her mouth. 'The Chapel of the Heart.'

AUBREY HISSED WHEN HE ENTERED THE TINY CHAPEL, JUST after George. Lying on the floor, like a rag doll flung aside by an angry toddler, was Sister Anne. He rushed to her and knelt. Her eyes were closed, but she was breathing. Aubrey sagged with relief. A large bruise was already appearing on the almost translucent skin of her forehead, and she had torn nails on both hands. She'd been attacked, but had defended herself until she'd been rendered unconscious. He touched her neck, and was reassured by the steady pulse.

'Sister Anne!' Sister Claire cried. Then she moaned. 'The Heart of Gold. It is gone.'

Aubrey jerked around and saw the niche was empty. He rose and took a hesitant step towards it but then stopped himself. They couldn't have gone far, he thought. He pushed past George and out of the tiny chapel. A priest was hurrying along the corridor, grey-headed and serious. 'Did anyone pass you, Father?' Aubrey asked, in Gallian.

The priest stepped back, startled. Aubrey grabbed his arm. 'I need to know, Father.'

Aubrey's urgency made an impression on the priest. 'Three men. That way. Into the cathedral.'

George and Caroline emerged from the chapel. 'In there, Father,' Aubrey said. 'A sister needs your help.' He gathered his friends. 'This way.'

In the cathedral, all was quiet and solemn, apart from three figures moving with deliberate haste toward the nave. One was stooped, as if under a heavy weight, and the other two were helping him along.

Aubrey did his best to hurry while still appearing reverential. Outright running didn't seem to be polite in a cathedral, but he was willing to risk it if necessary.

The men they were following reached the elaborate tomb of the composer St Pierre, then, just before they rounded the corner into the main body of the church, one of them glanced over his shoulder. He had a close, dark beard, a remarkably broad face and wore an expensive-looking suit. He shook his stooped partner and then let the other two disappear around the outflung hand of the spirit of music.

He rounded and waited for Aubrey and his friends to draw closer.

Aubrey slowed. 'Magic!' he said, and pushed George and Caroline toward the rows of pews before lunging for them himself.

He hit the floor and grimaced as skin was torn from his palm. In the narrow space between the pews, he rolled in time to see a searing violet globe spatter against the tomb of an obscure aristocrat. Instantly, the marble of the tomb twisted and stretched, as if caught in an updraft.

Screams filled the cathedral. The sound of running feet echoed as every sightseer decided that they'd seen enough. Aubrey scrambled along the row, bruising his hands and knees. 'George, get to the aisle. Keep low and see if you can flank him.'

'And me?' Caroline demanded.

Aubrey knew that Caroline was a formidable opponent in hand-to-hand combat. Her father had insisted that she learn from the best. 'You don't have a pistol, do you?' She was also a crack shot.

'Not at the moment.'

'Pity. Go with George. I'll try to get him to focus on me. Take your chance if you get one.'

George was already crawling toward the end of the pew. Caroline nodded and followed.

Aubrey prepared himself. He needed something offensive, but something that wouldn't damage the cathedral. He was both heartened and dismayed by his adversary's first salvo. It was powerful, redolent with wild magic, but it was also loose and sloppy. It was the work of someone who didn't care about such niceties as limiting the range of effect or of using restrictions on duration. This was the heedless magic of someone who had power, but had been taught little wisdom or restraint.

Aubrey ducked and peered under the seats of the pews. Someone wearing heavy boots was walking toward him.

Aubrey bit his lip. He had to try some magic, but his failure back at the university had unnerved him. For someone who had always been able to wrestle with the most complex spells, such a stumble upset his understanding of who he was. His confidence had been shaken, and that was something he was unaccustomed to.

Nothing extravagant, then, he thought. He launched a schoolboy spell, merely to keep his opponent occupied. It was so simple that only the most dullard of spell-casters messed it up and he ran through its elements, giving the final variable of intensity an extra twist.

He grunted as it required more effort than he expected, but his concern was overtaken by a guttural shout. He peeped over the backrest of the pew. The black-suited man was wrapped in a stinking cloud, a putrid miasma that clung to him no matter how much he flailed and cursed.

I know I'm going to regret this later, he thought, but by then he'd already sprung to his feet, then onto the seat of the pew. He barked the three syllables that cancelled the spell and launched himself at the man.

The cloud had begun to evaporate, but when Aubrey collided with the figure inside, he caught a lungful of the rotten, sickening stench and instantly wished he was somewhere else. He tangled with the black-suited man and fell to the floor, trying to get in a few uppercuts along the way.

Eyes streaming, Aubrey rolled over as his stomach tried to rush up his throat. He managed to get to all fours, a part of his brain readying for the kick he assumed would be delivered to his ribs.

When it didn't come, he looked up and saw George grappling with their foe. Caroline slipped into Aubrey's watery vision as the bearded man roared and knocked George aside. George struck a marble pillar and sagged, winded. Their foe's eyes widened when he saw Caroline, then he sneered.

She darted closer, then shot out a fist. It struck him just under the breastbone. His eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled.

Caroline rubbed her knuckles, then helped Aubrey to his feet. 'Are you all right?'

He wiped his eyes. 'I'll never think that stink bombs are harmless pranks. Not any more.'

'I imagine not.'

George limped over. 'The other two. I think they've got away.'

Whistles sounded from outside. Aubrey had a premonition and was not disappointed when Inspector Paul rounded the corner, supported by a squad of burly constables. He studied Aubrey sourly.

'I should have locked you away,' he said, in Albionish.

Aubrey pointed at the unconscious bearded man at their feet. 'His cronies stole the Heart of Gold. If you're quick, you may be able to catch them.'

'Do not attempt to teach me my business. I have matters in hand.' Inspector Paul motioned to the constables. 'Put them all in the wagon,' he said in Gallian.

He bowed to Caroline. 'Except you, Miss Hepworth. You will come with me.'

Aubrey sighed. 'What about this man? He's a magician, you know.'

'The Bureau of Exceptional Investigations has been called and will take him into their custody.'

The Bureau of Exceptional Investigations. Aubrey was intrigued, despite his discomfort. He wanted to see this equivalent of Albion's Magisterium.

The constables were abrupt, but not rough as they marched Aubrey and George through the cathedral and out into the open air. A crowd had gathered and they were escorted through it to the waiting police wagons. With no ceremony, Aubrey and George were bundled into the nearest.

Inside was a solitary figure, handcuffed and looking most displeased, stooped over and glowering.

Aubrey grinned. 'Well, hello, Hugo! Fancy meeting you here!'

Hugo von Stralick winced, then straightened with a smile. 'Ah, Fitzwilliam, Doyle. I see you've fallen foul of this misunderstanding, too.'

'What have you been up to?' Aubrey asked.

Von Stralick tried to shrug, but the manacles made the gesture awkward. 'I was simply trying to stop them, that's all.'

'Stop who?' George asked.

'The Holmlanders who stole the Heart of Gold.'

Seven

IT WAS THE ALBION AMBASSADOR HIMSELF, SIR PERCY Derringford, who was waiting with Inspector Paul when Aubrey and George were brought from the cells. A broad, silver-haired man, he scowled as if he'd been disturbed from a very fine dinner.

'They are yours, Ambassador,' Inspector Paul said. 'From what the nun told us, it seems clear that they are not the perpetrators of the theft.'

'Good of you, Inspector.'

'Not at all.' Inspector Paul smoothed back his hair, even though it didn't need any adjustment. 'I do not say that these people are entirely innocent. Especially that one.' He gestured at Aubrey. 'But we feel it best to let them go – as long as they agree not to make this affair public. The authorities have decided that it would be unhelpful if the incident were widely known.'

The Ambassador glared at Aubrey. 'I'll take them in hand.'

Aubrey did his best to appear compliant. 'But before you do, sir, I have a question for the Inspector.' He hurried on before the Ambassador had a chance to deny this request. 'You've found the Heart of Gold? The thieves?'

Inspector Paul stiffened. 'We are doing what we can. We have blocked all exits from the city to ensure the artefact doesn't leave.'

'What's happening to von Stralick?'

Sir Percy grunted. 'The Holmland spy? He's mixed up in this?'

Inspector Paul glanced at Sir Percy, shrugged, then answered Aubrey 'We have questions for him, on a number of matters. Especially since the other Holmlander has died.'

'The magician's dead?'

'He took his own life. By sorcerous means.'

AT THE EMBASSY, SIR PERCY ORDERED AUBREY AND George to his office. After arriving at the conclusion that Caroline was a helpless party to the events, she'd been whisked off by maids before she could express her displeasure at the notion that she was helpless about anything.

Aubrey and George, however, were castigated in the Ambassador's domain, a room full of such heavy, dark furniture that Aubrey guessed its maker had a fear that one day it might try to float away.

Sir Percy's reprimand drew on his military background. It was pointed, forceful and colourful. It raised points about duty and responsibility and also dwelled on various character deficiencies that the Ambassador found personally repugnant. Standing next to George, in front of the monolithic desk, Aubrey was concerned at first, then grew irritated, then finally drifted into a state of admiration for Sir Percy's dogged inventiveness.

The Ambassador didn't end with a flourish. He ended by fixing them with a grim eye. 'If I were your father, I wouldn't have you gallivanting about foreign parts like this.'

Aubrey stiffened. He'd been prepared to endure the Ambassador's tirade, but he wasn't about to ignore this criticism of his father.

'Sir Percy, I am here with the consent of both my father and my mother. They trust me – and George – to do the right thing. They are aware that I may make mistakes.' How could they not be? 'But they know that I will shirk neither my responsibility nor my duty.'

'Now listen here, young Fitzwilliam –'

Aubrey held up a hand. 'Not once have you asked what happened. Not once have you sought to find out the truth of the matter. That is your right, I suppose, but do not attempt to sully the reputation of my family for matters that concern me only. And my friends.' Damn, he thought. I was doing well until that lame ending.

Sir Percy glared. 'Letters have arrived for you. Collect them from the Under-Consul on your way out.' He smiled coldly. 'A message from the Magisterium has arrived for you too.'

Clattering down the stairs to the entrance of the embassy, George gave a low whistle. 'What was that about?'

'Sir Percy was appointed by the previous PM.'

'Ah. One of Rollo's old boys?'

'Which makes him automatically suspicious of my father.'

Caroline was waiting for them. She was still smouldering. 'Helpless?' she said as soon as she saw Aubrey and George. 'Helpless? That's the sort of attitude that's keeping women oppressed.'

Aubrey nodded. 'We tried to tell him that you were just as guilty as we were, but he wouldn't listen.'

'Up to your neck in criminality,' George added.

Caroline nodded. 'Good. I'm glad you stood up for me.' Then she laughed. 'I was furious. The maids were so frightened they called for the sergeant-at-arms.'

Aubrey would have liked to have seen that. 'Good for you.'

A harried-looking functionary scuttled out from a nearby door. 'Your letters.' He thrust a string-tied bundle into Aubrey's hands.

He groaned. 'More jobs to do, no doubt.'

'Let's eat, then,' George said. 'Looks as if you'll need all your strength.'

THE RESTAURANT WAS BUSY, TWO STREETS FROM THE RIVER and crowded with students and artists, half-hidden by swirls of pungent cigarette smoke. They found a table in a corner under an ornate gilt mirror. Once food had been ordered and served, Aubrey took the chance to cast a discreet muffling spell so the three friends could talk without being overheard.

He was absurdly grateful when it worked flawlessly. It wasn't that he took his skill for granted, it was more that he was afraid of what he'd be if he had no magic. He liked being a talented magic worker. It set him apart, made him special, and he enjoyed that.

Am I that shallow then? he wondered, but he reprimanded himself. Despondency was a trap and he aimed to avoid it.

Nonetheless, his hands shook after casting the spell and he hid them under the table. I just need some rest, he told himself, that's all.

Caroline crossed her arms. 'Now, I'd like to know why you're really in Lutetia.'

For you. Aubrey's eyes went wide. For an instant, he thought he'd blurted his thoughts aloud. Hastily, he waved a hand in an effort at nonchalance. He nearly slapped a waiter, who sniffed at him but didn't stop. 'Ah. You could say that it's more than just a simple holiday.'

'I gathered that. Nothing is simple where you're concerned.'

'True,' George said as he tucked into a plate of mussels. He gazed forlornly at the empty bread basket. From a table nearby, a pretty red-haired girl noticed and threw George a roll. He caught it and grinned at her. 'I learned that long ago.'

Aubrey knew he had a salad on the table in front of him, but he had no appetite. In fact, the smell of food made him queasy, and he did his best to avoid looking at it. He leaned back in his chair and started when he bumped into a vase full of ostrich feathers. 'I have many things to do here.'

He decided to take her into his confidence. It wasn't entirely a ploy to become closer to her, he told himself. It was a practical step. She was very . . . useful.

He outlined his father's task, Bertie's request, his grandmother's mission and, finally, his mother's wish to find Dr Romellier.

Caroline patted her lips with a napkin. 'Why didn't you simply ask me for help?'

'Because he never asks anyone for help,' George said. 'Goes against his nature. Independent beast is our Aubrey.'

'And with so much to do,' Caroline said, 'why didn't you divide the tasks between you? You'd get more done more quickly that way.'

Aubrey realised he'd never thought of it. 'George doesn't know any Gallian.'

'Give me some credit, old man. I get by. And I'm not afraid of asking for help, especially from some of these cheery Lutetian girls.' He waved at a quartet at a nearby table and won laughter and smiles in return.

Caroline continued. From the gleam in her eye, Aubrey decided that she was enjoying his discomfort. 'What if I told you that I'd recently heard about this mysterious Dr Romellier?'

'Dr Romellier?' Aubrey said. 'You?'

'He's been working with some of the researchers in the same department as I am. He never appears himself, simply sends letters and crates of specimens. I've seen them lying around.'

'Does his correspondence have a return address?'

'No idea. It's not really relevant to my work.'

'But you could find out.'

'Yes. I could. We're all very friendly in the department. Charming, polite people.'

George nudged Aubrey. 'Go on, old man, ask her.'

Aubrey sighed, then leaned forward and fixed Caroline's gaze with his. 'Miss Caroline Hepworth, please grant me this boon: find Dr Romellier's return address and convey it to me. My gratitude will be immediate and long-lasting. In fact, I thank you for even considering my request, unworthy wretch that I am.'

She smiled. Aubrey smiled back and felt like he'd won a substantial prize. 'Very prettily put,' she said. 'I'd love to.'

'But?'

Caroline tilted her head on one side. 'I am busy, you know. I can't just drop everything and go gadding about on errands.'

'Of course, of course,' Aubrey said. It took an almighty effort, but he stilled his tongue and said nothing more. He had an inkling that Caroline actually wanted to help, and if he let her she'd find a way to do it.

'But I suppose I could squeeze in some time,' she said and Aubrey thanked the stars. 'A little. Here and there. If I can.'

Aubrey sat back in his chair. 'I would appreciate it greatly, you know. I'd love to scratch one task from my list.'

'Well,' George said, 'I'm not one to be left out. What if I do some of that ancestor hunting for the Prince tomorrow? I can tramp around a few churches and take notes, if that's all it is. I might learn a thing or two, broaden the mind and all that.'

'Judging from Bertie's notes,' Aubrey said, 'that should cover it.'

'Well then.' George beamed. 'What about you?'

'I still have plenty left to do.'

'What about the message from the Magisterium?' Caroline asked.

Aubrey had forgotten all about it. He'd hung his jacket on a coat stand next to the table. He fumbled inside it until he found the sealed message.

The restaurant had, if anything, grown more crowded. No-one seemed to be paying them any attention. He held up the message gingerly. 'It must be important. This is an etheric message.' Caroline and George were puzzled. 'The Magisterium can send encrypted messages via a magic cylinder. It's highly technical, though – they only use it in extraordinary circumstances.'

After he'd scanned the terse lines of text, he knew why Craddock had been so keen to get a message to him. He frowned and tested the integrity of his muffling spell. Satisfied, he passed the message to Caroline. 'Large-scale magic creates disturbances that magicians can detect. The Magisterium has operatives whose sole job is to monitor for these, so they can dispatch response squads. Whole rooms of them, in Darnleigh House, just waiting, sensing . . .' He rubbed his eyes and wished he were feeling more robust. 'Apparently, when the Heart of Gold was stolen, it was like a major earthquake. Several of the most sensitive operatives were hospitalised.' If I've timed this correctly, he thought, Caroline should have reached the last part of the message. 'Read it out,' he said. 'The last sentence.'

'"Do everything to find and return the Heart of Gold."' She looked up. 'It's true then? Gallia will collapse without it?'

'I don't know. Perhaps the Magisterium is simply concerned about the effect on Gallian morale, but I don't think so. I think they're afraid Gallia will crumble.'

'And that would be very bad for Albion,' George said.

'Very bad indeed.' Aubrey took a sip of his mineral water. It was flat and tasteless on his tongue. 'Well, I suppose that tomorrow is all laid out for me now.'

THE NEXT MORNING, THURSDAY, AUBREY HAD A RAGING headache even before he opened his eyes. When he did, everything in his room was wavery, with multiple outlines, even though the dim light outside suggested it was scarcely past dawn. He sat up in bed, but dizziness threatened to swamp him. He lay back, closed his eyes again and, exhausted, concentrated on breathing.

It was clear that his condition was deteriorating, and faster than he'd expected. The fatigue, the aching joints, the loss of appetite, the dizziness all pointed to the fact that the true death was calling.

He concentrated on steadying himself. He tried to construct a spell, but he couldn't sustain the effort required. His focus became ragged and he couldn't piece enough elements together.

He clenched his teeth, even though that simple action hurt his jaw. He wasn't about to let things fall apart. If he couldn't save himself through magic, he'd have to do it through stubbornness.

Aubrey lay there, eyes closed, his hands curled in fists, every muscle taut, simply refusing to let his soul drift away from his body. The golden cord that united the two was ragged, unravelling. He brought his magical attention to bear on it, finding the weak points and doing his best to knit them together. It was painstaking, meticulous work and he had the sense that it was wearing faster than he could mend it.

Every breath in and every breath out became a victory. Aubrey fastened onto these small triumphs and made every one a milestone. One breath after another, then the next and the next. Breathing is life, he repeated to himself. Breathing is life.

When George burst through the door, Aubrey started. Daylight was flooding in around the edges of the curtains. 'I was asleep,' he said with some surprise.

'Good thing. Just what you need.' George was fairly bouncing with excitement. 'What I need is one of Madame Calvert's excellent breakfasts.'

George threw back the curtains and sunlight flooded the room.

Aubrey swung his legs over the edge of the bed and gazed at his striped pyjama legs. He was alive.

'What's so funny, old man?'

'Nothing, really. I was just thinking about how useful pig-headedness can sometimes be.'

WHILE GEORGE WAS WORKING THROUGH A THIRD PASTRY, Aubrey sniffed.

George wiped his mouth with a napkin. 'Getting a cold, old man?'

'No. I just realised that I can't smell anything.' Aubrey reached out and took a teaspoon of jam. He rolled the sticky stuff around in his mouth, then made a face. With an effort, he swallowed it. 'Nor taste anything.'

'Ah.' George looked at his repast. 'I wouldn't like that. Another sign of your problem?'

'I think so.'

George muttered a few consolatory words, but the rest of the breakfast was subdued. Aubrey toyed with his butter knife, depressed, and struggled with a glass of water. Inaction chafed at him and he became impatient to be off.

Eventually, Aubrey and George stood on the street outside Madame Calvert's residence. The sky was pale blue, but white, tattered clouds regularly drifted across, cutting off the sunlight. Aubrey found the effect disconcerting, as the streetscape was intermittently shadowed, then bright, then shadowed again. It chilled him, even though the morning was warm.

He paused. The gutter on the opposite side of the street had backed up. Putrid water, choked with rubbish, was belching from the drain while two workmen scratched their heads. Aubrey frowned.

George held up a pencil and tapped his notebook. 'I've mapped out my day according to the Prince's notes and the closest metro stations. Madame Calvert recommended a café where I should be able to get a good lunch. I've written down some useful phrases.'

Aubrey was impressed. 'Such as?'

'Oh, things like "I beg your pardon" and "Sorry" and "Forgive me, I'm from Albion".'

'I can see that sort of thing coming in handy.'

'And you? Are you feeling chipper enough?'

'I'm aiming to do something about that,' Aubrey admitted. 'I want to find von Stralick and see what he knows about this Heart of Gold business, but before that I'm going to get to this Faculty of Magic, if it exists.' He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. 'I hope to find something useful there.'

George frowned. 'I worry about you, old man.'

'I appreciate that, George, but let's hope I can give you less cause for worry, soon.' Give all of us less cause for worry. 'Oh, and keep your eyes peeled for a man.'

'A man? Any man in particular?'

'I have the impression that someone is watching us. Tall, slender, unmemorable face.'

'Sounds easy enough to spot.' He studied Aubrey. 'D'you think it's serious?'

'Be careful, George, that's what I'm saying. Stay alert.'

'At all times. I'll be a veritable paragon of alertness.'

AUBREY COULDN'T HELP BUT NOTICE THE MOOD THAT HAD fallen on the university. As the ragged clouds scudded across the heavens, he saw knots of angry students arguing, with much flinging of hands in the air and stalking off in high dudgeon.

He wondered if news of the theft of the Heart of Gold had filtered out. Or was there simply a collective reaction to the loss, a national response on a level below the conscious? From the troubled faces of the students and academics, something was at work.

Aubrey was crossing the specimen garden at the rear of the Botany building when he was flagged down. 'Fitzwilliam! Fitzwilliam!'

He shook off his thoughts to see Duval hurrying toward him. The theatre director wore a houndstooth jacket and a beret. 'Hello, Duval. How's the production progressing?'

Duval threw his hands in the air. 'That is what I want to talk to you about. You missed a rehearsal last night. We went on without you, but it's difficult without the male lead.'

Aubrey set off, guiltily. Duval fell in beside him. 'I'm sorry, Duval, but I've been busy.'

'Of course, of course. You have recovered from your near-drowning?'

'Mostly.'

'Excellent.' Duval pursed his lips for a moment. 'You have business at the university?'

'I'm looking for the Faculty of Magic.'

'So you are not meeting Miss Hepworth?'

Aubrey glanced at Duval. 'Not right now.'

The Gallian looked relieved. 'A fine young woman. Independent. Attractive.'

Aubrey looked sidelong at Duval. 'Yes.'

'The Faculty of Magic?' Duval said, veering wildly across the conversation. 'Surely you are joking. There has been no Faculty of Magic at the university for many years.'

'I heard there may be remnants of its presence, a few things to look at.'

'What is left of the old Magic Building is being used for storage.'

'You know where it is?'

'Of course. We keep some backdrops and props there. Old Maurice takes good care of them. 'Duval brightened. 'He is someone you should talk to, if you're interested in the old faculty. He's the caretaker, and has been there forever.'

'I'd like that very much.'

'Come, then. I will find him and introduce you.'

As they rounded the Botany Building and strode along the shady walk that divided the Chemistry laboratories from the Geology Department, Aubrey had the disquieting impression that he was being followed. He did his best to glance over his shoulder and to use the reflection in windows to look behind him, but he saw nothing suspicious. I'm jumping at shadows, he thought. Perhaps I'm not suited to this intelligence work after all. He hoped Craddock had other operatives in Lutetia. Aubrey didn't want to be the only one trying to find the missing Heart of Gold.

They reached the western edge of the campus. The Library was a long, forbidding four-storey building with a peaked slate roof and many windows. Aubrey thought it may have once been a monastery. The Medicine Building next to it was taller, but just as dour. Aubrey had never seen a more rectangular building. It was as if the architects had been mortally afraid of curves.

Duval took Aubrey through an arched walkway that divided the two buildings. 'This leads to the street,' he said, 'but just before we get there . . .Ah, here.'

Behind the Library, hidden from the rest of the university, was an ancient, round tower. The walls were heavy, dark stone, quite different from the dirty sandstone of the Library. When Aubrey looked closely he could see signs of the hand-wielded tools that had carved the stone blocks. The uppermost part of the tower projected defiantly above both the Library and the Medicine Building, a copper-roofed turret that reminded Aubrey of an ancient warrior wearily surveying a battlefield.

Duval didn't hesitate. He pushed open the door and marched into the dark interior.

Inside, Aubrey's magical senses were assaulted by the centuries of built-up magical residue. He turned in a full circle, and it was like rolling the frequency adjuster on a radio as he felt shadowy ghost fragments of spells that had become embedded in the very walls. His nose wrinkled at the ancient chemical smells from experiments ages ago.

The circular space was ten yards or so across. Seven doors opened onto it, while a spiral staircase stood in the middle. It led to an iron walkway that marked the first floor. Above that was another iron walkway for the second floor. Beyond that, all detail was lost in the shadows.

The nearest door opened. A creaky, Gallian voice sawed through the air. 'Who is it?'

Duval held up a hand and replied in the same language. 'Maurice, it is I, Duval. I have brought a friend.'

Maurice had once been tall, but age had bent him so that his head was actually lower than his shoulders. His lank grey hair fringed a bald dome. He wore narrow trousers and an ancient, black frock coat. He peered at Aubrey. 'You want to store something here?'

'No,' Aubrey replied in Gallian. 'I want to learn about the Faculty of Magic.'

Maurice's eyebrows shot up. Duval shrugged. 'He's from Albion.'

Maurice bobbed his head. 'Albion. That's where the magicians went when the faculty started to crumble,' he said in passable Albionish. 'A long time ago.'

'Are there none left?'

'Just Bernard.'

Duval snorted. 'Bernard? He's no magician. He's a hopeless drunkard. The university lets him stay because he was once apprenticed to the great Professor Lorraine.'

'Does he still work here?' Aubrey asked Maurice.

'He tinkers with magic still. He is old. He doesn't want to die.'

'Oh?'

'He is sure he can find a way to preserve his soul, to keep it from leaving this existence.'

Aubrey's eyes widened at this. He looked toward the upper floors. 'Where is he?'

'In his rooms. Fifth floor.'

While Duval engaged Maurice in discussion about his storage plans, Aubrey took the opportunity to climb the stairs and look for Bernard.

As he climbed, his magical awareness began to nag at him. He rubbed the back of his neck, then he felt pins and needles in his fingers. He supposed his reaction could simply be from the centuries of experimentation that had taken place in the building, but after his recent brushes with magic, he felt uneasy.

After he passed the third-floor landing, cobwebs began to festoon the staircase, hanging from the balustrades in baroque displays of lacework. When he reached the fourth floor, he thought he could hear noises coming from above. He paused, listening, and gripped the iron handrail. A bright light flared, leaking from around one of the doors on the fifth floor. Aubrey was heartened. He had a destination.

He reached the landing on the fifth floor. The staircase still went upwards. He wondered if it opened onto a rooftop observatory, a favoured relaxation place for magicians everywhere.

Aubrey stopped, frowning. He smelled a sharp, chemical odour. And was that smoke in the air? Perhaps Monsieur Bernard still had enough skill to tinker with interesting magic.

The light flared again from behind the door three places to his left. Aubrey started for it, but paused when the bright light seeped through the crack around the door again.

He reached the door and eased it open, finding himself in a vestibule. It was crowded with boxes and Aubrey had to pick his way through them before he reached the door to the main room. With care, he opened it and stepped into a decidedly old-fashioned magician's workshop.

The room was long with three tall, narrow windows on the southern side, one of which was bricked over. In the middle of the room were four benches. One was covered with glassware that Aubrey was sure would make an antique dealer very interested. Another had small slabs of timber, woodworking tools and a collection of copper bowls. The third and fourth were laden with alchemical material and diverse spell-making paraphernalia – chalk, flasks of mercury, powdered charcoal, ink, hammers and tongs. An elaborate light fitting hung from the centre of the ceiling, plates of silvered glass reflecting light about the room. Racks of shelves lined the walls, some containing books, others holding bottles and jars. Wherever there were no shelves, boxes were piled high. At the right side of the room, the racks were covered with a tattered piece of canvas. It was a traditional, conservative working place with no concession to modern magic at all.

At one end of the room, past the benches, a huge man was sitting on a chair, gazing fixedly into the air. He wore an old-fashioned suit and he had one arm resting on a small table by his side. Behind him, billows of white canvas hung from the wall.

Facing away from Aubrey, with all his attention on the corpulent man, was a photographer.

Aubrey had observed George's dallying with photography, and had learned enough to see that this camera was a very strange contraption indeed. The tripod was standard equipment, but the camera itself was oddly proportioned, much wider than normal. The bellows which connected the lens and the plate box was rich leather while the woodwork was almost certainly mahogany. A metal shelf holding flash powder was attached to the right side of the camera by a moveable arm. Aubrey wondered at the purpose of the brass levers that protruded from the plate holder. The photographer was adjusting them with particular care.

The photographer straightened, still unaware that Aubrey had entered the room. He was a small man, with a long topcoat. He wore a bowler hat so low that his eyebrows nearly touched the brim.

'Now,' the photographer said in thick Gallian, 'your final photograph.'

Aubrey cleared his throat. 'Hello.'

The photographer jerked around. He was holding a photographic plate in one hand and a lit taper in the other. Aubrey had an impression of a moustached, wildeyed face with sharp cheekbones. His black hair hung long and unkempt, almost to his shoulders. The photographer stared at Aubrey with such astonishment that Aubrey almost laughed.

The photographer narrowed his eyes and touched the taper to the flash powder. A brilliant flash of light erupted. Aubrey reeled back, clutching his eyes while purple bursts danced across his vision and his magical senses ran riot.

He heard a curse, followed by clattering and fumbling, a crash and more swearing.

Opening his eyes and squinting through the smoke of the flash powder, Aubrey saw the photographer swinging a large black bag at him.

Aubrey ducked, rolled to one side and took a blow on his shoulder that made him grunt. His momentum combined with the blow to knock him forward, but as he fell he groped for his attacker. He grasped cloth, but with another curse it was yanked free.

The pounding of feet on the iron walkway signalled the flight of his assailant down through the tower.

Rubbing his shoulder, Aubrey climbed to his feet. He limped through the vestibule and out onto the walkway, wondering what had provoked such a reaction.

Below, clanging pell-mell down the stairway, as if all the fiends of hell were after him, was the photographer. He held his large black bag in one hand and he carried a long case on his shoulder.

The photographer looked up and saw Aubrey peering down at him, then he was off again. He pushed past Duval and Maurice, who'd come to see what all the din was about.

Aubrey went to the railing. 'A madman,' he called.

Maurice screwed up his face. 'This place has seen plenty of them.'

Wincing, Aubrey rubbed his shoulder again. He'd have a good-sized bruise, he guessed, right underneath the shoulder blade. As the discomfort eased, however, he became aware of another sensation – the rasping of magic.

He stared back at the workshop, his heart beginning to race. A deep moan came from the open door and his chest was suddenly tight with fear.

A large, blundering shape filled the doorway. It swayed, then pawed at the air, muttering. When it stepped out of the darkness, Aubrey saw it was the fat man who'd been posing for his photograph. His vast belly was a bulwark in front of him.

Then Aubrey saw his face. Slack, blank-eyed, devoid of all intelligence, it was the tell-tale visage of one who had been visited by the Soul Stealer.

A Gallian wail came from Maurice two floors below. 'Monsieur Bernard! What has happened to you?'

Aubrey flexed his hands. Bernard slowly heaved his great bulk to face him, and his moans turned to growls. With an effort, as if his body was slow to follow commands, he moved toward Aubrey, swinging his arms like clubs.

Aubrey skated backward, then turned and ran. He circled the walkway, and Bernard came after him with the awkwardness that seemed to come with the dispossessed state. Aubrey was confident that he could keep his distance.

Bernard – or the creature who had once been Bernard – growled and coughed, staggering from wall to railing, making rough, haphazard progress.

Aubrey could have lured Bernard further, then sprinted around to the stairs, but he continued backing away, weighing up his options.

With his state deteriorating again, he needed to find a way to stabilise his condition. He'd been hoping, deep down, that in the Faculty of Magic he'd find something that could help. Maurice had hinted at Monsieur Bernard's work in preserving life. Could the last magician in the faculty be Aubrey's saviour?

But he won't be any help at all in this condition, Aubrey thought as he kept his eye on the mindless brute Monsieur Bernard had become.

As if to emphasise Aubrey's thoughts, Bernard tottered to one side and collided with a door. It rattled under the impact and he swiped at it with a flat backhand.

Noise from the stairs made him look in that direction. Maurice stood on the staircase, appalled at what had happened to his master. Duval was below him, staring, equally horror-struck.

'Don't let him see you,' Aubrey called.

'What are you going to do?' Duval replied.

'What's in his room, Maurice?'

Maurice ran a hand through his stringy hair. 'Magical equipment. Books. Things he has collected over the years. He's never thrown anything away.'

I hope that's the case, Aubrey thought. 'I'm going to entice him back there. Then I'll help him.'

Duval gaped. 'You're a magician?'

'Yes.'

'What can we do?'

'Be ready if I call.'

Despite the weariness that dogged him, Aubrey ran for Bernard's workshop. He burst through the vestibule and into the main workshop. He stood directly under the mirrored light fitting and gazed around. A magician's workshop was the perfect resource for improvisation, so he had no shortage of useful stuff. While he thought, he pocketed a small box of rubber bands and a glue pot.

Behind him, Bernard's growls grew louder, followed by the sound of boxes tumbling on top of each other. Aubrey slipped around the first workbench, putting it between himself and the door. Keeping one eye on the entrance, he searched the bench and tried to form a plan.

He could try immobilising Bernard with his standard binding spell. As long as it's strong enough for such a behemoth, he thought when he took in the enormous bulk of the man framed in the doorway. He riffled through the spells and fragments of enchantments he'd learned, seeking something useful, but with the nagging doubt that came from the spell failure he'd experienced with even the simple binding spell.

He needed to restore Bernard's senses if the magician was to be of any assistance. To do that, he'd have to establish exactly what was wrong with the man. For a wild instant, he grinned at his calmness. This was turning into a rational investigation in the best manner of modern magic. Test, observe, hypothesise, even while being menaced by a mindless creature intent on mayhem.

Bernard stumbled into the workshop, each footstep a ponderous one. His face was somehow both empty and cunning.

Quickly, Aubrey decided that Bernard didn't look like a docile experimental subject at all. He resolved to postpone a methodical examination until later, when he wasn't in danger of being torn apart.

Aubrey gathered himself, determined not to mess up this casting, and chanted the binding spell, twice in quick succession. Twin glowing ribbons flew across the room, one hobbling Bernard's feet and the other looping over his head to trammel his arms.

Aubrey was dismayed when Bernard managed to wrench one arm free, but as he struggled, it gave Aubrey a chance to snatch some chalk from the workbench. He edged past Bernard until he was directly behind him, in the alcove formed by the vestibule projecting into the room. Here Aubrey found the clear floor area that was vital in any magician's workshop. He dropped to his knees and hurriedly swept the dust away with a hand to find faint traces of chalk marks.

A roar and a crash made Aubrey's head jerk up. Bernard had managed to burst free of the glowing loop around his arm and chest, but his flailing combined with the binding on his feet had sent him sprawling against the workbench. A pile of glass photographic plates toppled and smashed, tins of powder sprayed and a wooden elephant marched up and down on the bench while playing a fanfare through its trunk. Bernard sprawled in this wreck, thrashing and managing to tangle himself in a large spring he'd dislodged from a brass orrery on the bench.

Concentrate! Aubrey told himself. He tried to work swiftly but methodically as he drew a simple restraining diagram. All he had time for was a straightforward double ring of chalk on the floor, but he strove to make up for its deficiencies, chanting while he inscribed, throwing together variables of integrity, volume and duration. His palms were sweating, and a monstrous headache pounded behind his temples, but he kept his grip on the chalk, not wanting any irregularity in the double lines. He joined the loop together and stood, the completed ring between him and Bernard. Aubrey waved to attract his attention.

Bernard had freed himself from the tangle of glassware and wire. His legs were free of the last glowing loop. Green oil dripped from one of his arms, but he didn't seem to notice. He turned, searching, in a complete circle, kicking aside a flat metal bowl which spun on its rim, but it was only when he noticed Aubrey's waving that he fixed on his target and started in that direction.

Aubrey's head pounded as Bernard came closer to the trap. In a few more paces he'd step into the ring and Aubrey would have him, safe and locked up.

Aubrey froze. He stared at the diagram on the floor, stunned at his ineptitude. He'd made a novice's mistake and not left a gap in the ring. Bernard wouldn't be able to get inside.

With Bernard only a few feet away, Aubrey leaped across the ring and broke the chalk line with his foot. The gap was small, but he gambled that it was enough of an interruption to the integrity of the restraining figure.

Aubrey retreated, using himself as bait. Bernard didn't hesitate. He lifted his massive leg and stepped into the circle.

Aubrey twisted and backed away as Bernard pawed at him, ending up outside the ring, pressed against the wall. With a shake of his head, he realised that this time he had literally backed himself into a corner.

Chalk still in hand, he pushed off the wall and into a forward roll that evaded Bernard's grasp. He somersaulted to his feet, dizzily, to see Bernard's vast back, like a cliff, in front of him. He bent and with a few quick slashes of chalk he sealed the gap in the ring. He straightened, panting and feeling sick. Bernard was trapped.

He hoped.

Bernard turned, seeking his prey. He swayed from side to side, then tottered toward Aubrey, but when he reached the confines of the ring he jolted to a halt, as if he'd run into a sheet of glass. He edged sideways, but still couldn't step over the chalk line. His growl changed to a desperate moan as he worked his way right around the ring until he was facing Aubrey again.

Aubrey felt sorry for the mindless Bernard. Or was it still Bernard, he wondered. If you take enough away from a person, is it a person any more? He shuddered at the implications.

He chanted his binding spell again, summoning the glowing ribbons. Unimpressed with their flimsiness, he took a rubber band and the glue pot from his pocket. He improvised a spell which drew on the Law of Transference and the Law of Essence. He wanted to use the stickiness of the glue and the elasticity of the rubber band to improve the effect of the spell, but he faltered. He was weaker than he had been at the university, when his spell attempt had failed. Should he be attempting something so complex while he was exhausted and aching?

Self-belief was matched against self-doubt. Aubrey was heartened when self-belief won by an innings and a handful of runs. He launched into the spell, hands curled into fists of determination.

He sighed with relief when the glowing loops behaved as he'd hoped. Bernard struggled with the bonds, but where he'd been able to rip the previous effort apart, this time the bands stretched then snapped back, frustrating his attempts. And the more he struggled, the more his limbs clung to each other as the stickiness went to work.

Soon, Bernard was snared in multiple glowing ribbons, contorted awkwardly with his arms wrapped around his body. He wobbled for a moment, then toppled, landing on his back with a crash that shook the whole workshop.

Aubrey let out a long, thankful breath. His hands trembled. Dizziness swept through him until he reached out and steadied himself against the wall. He'd exerted himself and he knew that this was hastening the deterioration of his condition. He ran his fingers through his hair and was stunned when clumps came loose.

He stared at the dull, black strands. He was falling apart.

Wearily, he dropped to his knees. He crawled to Bernard's side to find that the magician's struggles had lessened. He lay almost motionless, his blank gaze on the ceiling.

Aubrey placed an open hand on Bernard's chest and extended his magical awareness. Then he drew back at what he found.

It looked like a person, but the creature was a shell. It explained the violence of Monsieur Jordan and the poor woman at the university. Only the basest, primeval instincts were left to animate the body. Defensive and violent, reacting aggressively to what they dimly perceived, they lashed out like animals.

Full of pity, Aubrey stared at the old magician. Bernard's soul was gone – and yet his body survived.

Aubrey shook his head. Without a soul, Bernard should be dead. His soul, once severed from his body, should have fled through the portal that led to the true death. Of all people, Aubrey knew that. Then how was this thing still alive – if it could be called life?

Pieces came together in Aubrey's mind, falling into place with inarguable elegance. The photographer. The magical aura that came when the flash powder erupted. Monsieur Bernard's state. The Soul Stealer.

The photographer was the Soul Stealer. Somehow, he'd discovered a way to divorce souls from bodies without incurring the true death. Excited, Aubrey realised that if he could find out how, he may be able to gain some insights into the relationship between body and soul that he could use to help himself.

He sat back on his haunches sifting through the possibilities. While he hummed, something caught his eye. On the floor near the chair Bernard had been posing in was a photographic plate.

Aubrey thought back to the moment he entered the workshop. He'd cleared his throat, noise, confusion, bright light, magic flaring, and then the sound of . . .

The Soul Stealer had dropped something. He'd panicked and then he'd dropped something.

Aubrey rose, wincing at pain in his knees, and limped to the plate. He studied it where it lay for a moment. Then, carefully, he picked it up.

It fairly vibrated with magic. Aubrey frowned as the tips of his fingers hurt. It was a kind of magic he'd never encountered before. He sniffed and wrinkled his nose. The gelatin on the plate was imbued with unfamiliar substances. The smell was harsh and faintly rotten.

He held the plate up to the light and gasped.

The backdrop, the chair and the vase stand were all clear and perfectly in focus. As a still life, it was a fine photograph. Every fold in the cloth was articulated, every board in the floor was sharp and in focus. But the main figure in the composition – Bernard – was grey and translucent. The backrest of the chair was easily seen through his ghostly form as he sat, with an expression of pure horror on his face.

Aubrey peered more closely. Cords were attached to the ghostly Bernard's wrists and ankles. They then stretched out to the four corners of the photographic plate. It was as if the ghostly Bernard were an insect, spreadeagled on a specimen board. His face was contorted with agony.

Aubrey didn't need to see a colour photograph to know that the cords were golden. He'd seen their like before. With a chill, he recognised them from the disastrous experiment with forbidden death magic that had caused the golden cord uniting Aubrey's own body and soul to be disrupted.

He stared at the photograph and felt sick. In a hideous union of magic and technology, Bernard's soul had been trapped, embedded in the photographic plate Aubrey held in his hands.

He felt unclean, holding the unnatural thing. He let go with one hand and wiped his other on his jacket, but the taint remained.

He looked at the empty vessel that had been Bernard. His body and soul had been torn apart. Could they be brought back together?

He steeled himself and gripped the photographic plate in both hands. He shuddered when he realised that the agony on Bernard's face was mixed with terror – which suggested that the poor man, at the last instant, knew that his soul was being dragged from him.

And here I have it in my hands, Aubrey thought. He chewed his lip. He feared that the longer they were apart, the more difficult it would be to bring them back together. What were his options? If he freed the trapped soul from the photographic plate, it would immediately be drawn to the portal that led to the true death. It would be lost forever. But was there a way to free the soul and reunite it with its body? And if he could do that, could it lead him to something useful for his own state?

He stared at the glass plate, its greys and sharply edged blacks a sign of the silver-gelatin process, but the Soul Stealer had enhanced it with – what? He touched it with a forefinger and felt the telltale tingle of magic. Without realising it he began to hum as he thought.

He knew that silver was the key ingredient in many photographic processes, thanks to its light-sensitive nature when compounded. But silver had other useful characteristics, and Aubrey seized on one of them: silver was a very good reflector.

Aubrey had seen early mirrors which were made with a thin layer of silver behind glass. His mind worked on this, feverishly, while he scanned the room.

His gaze found the flat metal bowl that had almost tripped Monsieur Bernard. He lunged for it and used it to scoop up a handful of fragments from the photographic plates that had been on the workbench. He had a plan.

The bowl was dull copper, the size of a large serving platter. Working quickly, he ground the glass to a powder, using a brass letter seal that had been kicked under the bench. Then he swirled the powder around the bowl, as if he were panning for gold, while chanting a spell he'd concocted on the spot. His aim was to bond the silvered glass to the bowl, so he included spell elements that emphasised affinity (copper and silver were both metals, both fine conductors of electricity) and also proximity. It was a hasty spell, rough and imperfect, but Aubrey wasn't wasting time. He could refine it later – if it helped.

Under his magical urging, the glass swept around the bowl in a shimmering wave. Soon, Aubrey could see his own face, distorted by the gentle concavity of the bowl.

A wave of dizziness struck him. Simple though the spell had been, it had taxed him. He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed, sighing, but when he withdrew his hand he stared with dismay.

The skin on the back of his hand was flaking. As he watched, great dry patches fell away.

He put the bowl down and studied his other hand. It, too, had been struck by the rash. No redness, or itchiness, simply sloughing off of skin as if it were tired and unable to cling on.

I am not falling apart, Aubrey thought, denying the alarm that was uncoiling in his belly. I refuse to.

He picked up the silvery bowl and spun it over between his hands. It flashed, silver then copper, then silver again, and he was happy with the result.

He'd created a magical reflector.

His aim was to smash the soul plate, the disturbing resting place of Monsieur Bernard's soul. He hoped his magical reflector would prevent its disappearing into the true death.

It was bold, it was perhaps rash, and Aubrey wished he could cross his fingers – but that would make it even more difficult to hold the bowl just over the photographic plate.

I'll just have to trust to science, he thought.

He looked at Bernard's empty body. He looked at the photographic plate.

He strode over and crouched beside Bernard, apologising in advance.

Then while he held the magical reflector over Bernard's forehead with his left hand, he smashed the photographic plate on Bernard's forehead with his right.

Aubrey was blinded again, but this time the cause wasn't flash powder. Instead of a dazzling magnesium flare, this was an uncanny inversion of light, a void that sucked all illumination toward it. For an instant, Aubrey was plunged into total darkness. He couldn't see because there was nothing to see.

He held out a hand, but the void disappeared quickly. Aubrey found he was looking down at Bernard. Shards of glass lay in the man's hair and on the floor underneath his head. His forehead was bleeding. He dabbed at it weakly with a fat hand.

Bernard blinked at him, bewildered. 'You hit me,' he said in Gallian.

Aubrey smiled. 'I'm glad you're able to tell me that.' 'You have a silver bowl.'

Aubrey glanced at the bowl and put it on the floor. He helped the massive man sit up. Bernard was weak and wheezed noisily. 'It's a magical reflector.'

'Ah. I thought so.'

'Duval!' Aubrey called. 'Maurice!'

The two men rushed into the workshop. 'Monsieur Bernard!' cried Maurice.

'Let's get him to that sofa,' Aubrey said through gritted teeth. He scuffed the restraining diagram with his shoe.

Aubrey couldn't have done it alone, and it was a near thing with three of them. By the time they'd arranged the old magician on the sofa, Aubrey's head was a red haze of pain. He leaned against the wall, sweating.

'Bernard is not well,' Maurice said. 'His heart. He has a bad heart.'

'I'll get a doctor.' Duval ran for the door.

Bernard beckoned Aubrey to him. His voice was hoarse and feeble. Aubrey had to stoop to hear. 'I remember now,' Bernard said. 'My soul was taken. You got it back.'

'Rest. The doctor will be here soon.'

'Perhaps. Perhaps not.' The enormous man shrugged, but the motion sent him wheezing again. When he stopped, he turned his head to Aubrey. 'I can see you. You have been touched by magic.'

Aubrey nodded.

'More than that.' Bernard coughed. 'You have experimented with death magic.'

Aubrey swallowed. 'Yes.'

'You are on the edge. The true death is calling.'

All Aubrey could do was nod again.

'I, too, tested myself against death magic. Just the edges. It was enough.'

'Did you learn anything? Can you help me?'

'My notebook. In my desk. I've learned things. It is yours.'

Bernard's eyelids quivered. He sighed and his great hands trembled. Then he was gone.

Eight

MAURICE HAD SEEN ENOUGH IN THE FACULTY OF Magic to understand what he had to do next. Stony-faced after Aubrey's explanation, he nodded. 'I'll call the police. You'll not want to wait for them, I expect.'

Aubrey felt Bernard's notebook, heavy in the inner pocket of his jacket. 'I will, if you think it necessary.'

Maurice shook his head. 'I will do what is needed.' He'd already torn down the drapery and used it to cover the body of the old magician. 'You'll find that man, the one who did this?'

'I will.'

Outside the Faculty of Magic, Aubrey ran into Duval, who was accompanied by a lean, harried-looking man. He clutched a black bag that announced his profession better than an illuminated sign. 'Are we too late?' Duval asked anxiously.

'Bernard has passed away,' Aubrey said.

'Let me see,' the doctor said and he pushed through the door.

Aubrey stood on the stairs with Duval. He leaned against the wall of the tower for a moment, shivering in the sun. The encounter with the Soul Stealer and the death of Bernard had sapped him. He rubbed the back of one hand, then the other, and wished for an end to this frustrating existence.

'You look pale,' Duval said. 'It has been a shock, the death of the magician?'

'Yes. The photographer, the one who fled, was the Soul Stealer.'

'No!'

'He was in the process of taking Bernard's soul.' Aubrey sighed. 'I restored it, but Bernard wasn't strong.'

'Go and rest, my friend.' Duval clapped Aubrey on he back. 'You will need your strength for our rehearsal tonight.'

You have no idea how much I need my strength, Aubrey thought. 'Tonight?'

'Of course. And don't forget to bring Miss Hepworth.'

OUTSIDE THE UNIVERSITY GROUNDS, AUBREY STOOD ON Cooperation Street. Hands in pockets, he watched the cyclists, carriages and motorcars hurtling past with cavalier regard for anything approaching road rules.

Suddenly, a hand fell on his shoulder. He stiffened. 'Be easy,' a voice hissed in his ear. 'Pretend all is well.'

'Hello, von Stralick. Have you been watching me?'

The Holmland spy didn't answer. His eyes darted from side to side, at the traffic, the buildings opposite, and the sky.

'If I didn't know better,' Aubrey said, 'I'd think you were nervous.'

'Not nervous. Terrified.'

'Ah.' Aubrey wasn't sure he liked that any better. He was deeply tired, and he needed to examine the state of his skin, but he wanted to make the most of von Stralick's presence. 'Any particular reason I should know about?'

'Much is at stake.'

'I know that.'

'I've learned things that shed new light on the situation in Lutetia.'

Aubrey remembered Craddock's terse but urgent command to do what he could to find the Heart of Gold. 'What do you know?'

'What do you know?'

'We're not going to get anywhere like this. You're going to have to be rather more explicit.'

Von Stralick smiled briefly. 'Speaking explicitly is something I'm not accustomed to, either as a diplomat or an intelligence operative.'

'Spy.'

Von Stralick shrugged. 'Very well then. If we're speaking explicitly, "spy" is a reasonable enough term.'

Aubrey surveyed the Lutetian streetscape. The grey, pinched faces of the pedestrians hurrying past had a haunted look about them. 'Something is ill here.'

'Exactly. Now, will you come with me?'

Aubrey preferred marching into danger rather than being dragged toward it. 'Of course.'

THE PROPRIETOR OF THE CAFÉ ON THE TINY THINKERS' Square obviously knew von Stralick. The Holmlander nodded at the aproned Gallian behind the counter and immediately ushered Aubrey to a booth in the rear of the smoky establishment. Aubrey noted how von Stralick used the mirrors on the walls to watch the entrance.

The proprietor brought mineral water and coffee. Von Stralick downed the coffee and asked for another. Aubrey waited and sipped mineral water that had no taste at all, only to find that he had trouble swallowing. With a sinking heart, he added it to the list of symptoms of his deterioration.

When the second coffee arrived, von Stralick stared at it for a moment before speaking again. 'You know of the Marchmaine independence movement?'

Interesting beginning, Aubrey thought. 'We were caught in the altercation between them and the police at the Middle Bridge.'

'Precipitous lot,' von Stralick said. 'They don't realise what they're interfering with.'

'Tell me.'

'You know of their plans for an independent state in the north of Gallia?'

'Of course.'

'What you may not know is that some members of their movement are prepared to take desperate measures to achieve this.'

Aubrey digested this. 'Are you suggesting that the Marchmainers stole the Heart of Gold?'

Von Stralick licked his lips and didn't look at Aubrey for a moment. 'No, we stole it, but they are after it.'

A thousand questions sprang into Aubrey's mind, but he took the opportunity to probe von Stralick's sources. 'How do you know this?'

'When the police let me go, I contacted my superiors. They were dismayed at what has happened in Lutetia. The theft was an unauthorised action and has caused uproar in the highest circles. To make matters worse, I was told that a cell of fanatics within the Marchmaine movement is plotting to steal the object from our rogue operatives. They call themselves "The Sons of Victor".'

'"The Sons of Victor"? Rather a gaudy title.'

'Named after their founder, Martin Victor. A very powerful man, last century. Chrétien, the capital of Marchmaine province, was virtually his fiefdom.' Von Stralick stared at his cup of coffee. 'He was a skilled politician and he made powerful connections all over the Continent, hoping to find support for a free Marchmaine.' Von Stralick looked sour. 'It never happened, of course. The Gallian government did its best to discredit him. It said his overseas support was a delusion and that he was a crank. He died a broken man.'

'But he left a legacy. He had followers.'

'Indeed he did. The Sons of Victor are fanatics, you know, dedicated to a Marchmaine homeland, at whatever cost.'

'And they want to steal this object from your colleagues, who stole it in the first place.'

'You don't understand,' von Stralick said, urgently. 'The consequences are dire if the object is not returned.' He wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief. 'The only positive thing is that the thieves are trapped in Lutetia. The blockade around the city has been remarkably effective.'

'You look as if you don't believe all of this. Don't you trust your superiors?'

Von Stralick snorted. 'My superiors told me, long ago, to trust no-one. So I trust them least of all. I am a good student.'

It was simple enough for Aubrey to see why a band of Holmlanders would steal the Heart of Gold. If Gallia collapsed, Holmland would be the undisputed power on the Continent. But the Sons of Victor were another thing altogether.

'These fanatics are hoping to destabilise the Giraud government, to make their breakaway easier?' he suggested.

'Or to bargain. An independent Marchmaine in return for the object. 'Von Stralick sighed. 'But they are not just political fanatics, they are religious fanatics. They think that the object belongs in Chrétien, not in Lutetia. They believe that once it's returned to its rightful place, its magic will ensure that Marchmaine will become an independent, magical state.'

'Save us from zealots,' Aubrey muttered. 'This doesn't make sense to me. Why wouldn't Holmland be happy about a pro-Holmland state in the north of Gallia?'

'An unstable state with irrational leaders is not what we need.'

'Another unstable state.'

'One too many, let us say. 'Von Stralick grinned, but it seemed forced. 'Holmland can deal with a few unstable states, but not so many at once.'

'Too busy with the Goltans, are we?'

'I couldn't say.'

Aubrey tapped his water glass and watched the ripples. 'So Holmland doesn't want the Sons of Victor to get their hands on this object, as you call it.'

Von Stralick leaned across the table and gripped Aubrey's arm. 'We want the Heart of Gold returned. That is the position of the most important members of the Holmland government.'

Aubrey didn't trust von Stralick. He also understood that the Holmlander knew he wasn't trusted, which gave an odd sort of reliability to his responses.

Everything he said hinted at divisions in the upper ranks of Holmland. No doubt opinion was divided on the best way to prepare for war. Rogue elements at work, especially those with power, were very, very dangerous.

Aubrey detached his arm from von Stralick's grasp. 'It seems as if this object is more interesting than I thought. What is it, von Stralick? Why has it thrown the high and mighty into such a spin?'

Von Stralick rubbed his hands together, slowly, then answered. 'The Heart of Gold is, in many ways, Gallia.' He glanced at Aubrey. 'You must understand that I'm speaking literally here. The Heart of Gold is the essence of Gallia – it defines Gallia, it is what makes Gallia Gallia.'

'But what does it do?'

'It doesn't do anything. It simply is – and here I am going to be figurative, not literal. Like the fixed point of a compass, it remains still while the rest of the compass revolves around it. It is a foundation for the nation to base itself on. It is an anchor, a steadying point, a . . .' He scowled. 'Problems come about if Gallia is without its heart. The nation will start to sicken, and in its decline it may suffer in ways that are not clear.'

Aubrey shook his head. 'If this object is so important, why wasn't it guarded?'

Von Stralick shrugged. 'Who knows? Innocence, naïveté? Perhaps a theft was simply unthinkable to the Gallians. I imagine it will be very secure in future, if it is returned.'

Aubrey sat back in his chair and studied the ceiling for a moment, thinking. 'If we imagine the nation of Gallia as a person, then removing its heart would have a drastic effect indeed. Mortal effects.'

'The exact nature of these effects, my superiors were unwilling to divulge. If they know them.'

'They were afraid.'

Von Stralick nodded. 'If encrypted messages can carry the taint of fear, then the orders I received last night certainly were scared.'

'Orders?'

'Find the Heart of Gold. Return it to its rightful place. Do so quickly.'

Aubrey nodded. 'It seems as if the interests of Holmland and Albion are coinciding. Which I find amusing.'

'Healthy belligerence and espionage are well and good. But this matter is something else. It is a threat beyond the mortal.'

Aubrey now understood the insistence in the Magisterium's message. He imagined every available operative, agent and contact that the Magisterium had in Lutetia would have received similar orders. And a brigade of operatives is probably on its way across the channel as we speak, he thought. This gave him pause.

It was a challenge. Aubrey could feel excitement rising. If he could find the Heart of Gold before anyone else, it would be a coup. Such an achievement would impress important people.

A sober voice inside him pointed out that he didn't need to prove anything, that his worth was known, that he was appreciated for what he was, and other dreary platitudes, but he managed to put the voice aside in that corner of his mind reserved for such solemn, careful and mature impulses.

His blood was up. He needed to find the Heart of Gold.

Then he remembered his other commitments.

He felt Bernard's notebook in his inner jacket pocket. He wondered about George's progress with the Prince's ancestors. He had pangs of guilt when he thought of Dr Romellier and the quest for his grandmother's correspondence. The only real progress he'd made was in observing the Marchmaine Independence League – he at least had something to report on that front.

'You're looking for my help,' he finally said.

'You have the magical ability that I do not. In a situation like this, such skill is important. As you point out, recovering the Heart of Gold is in both our interests.'

Aubrey sat back. For a moment, he saw his life as a giant chessboard. Von Stralick was a piece, recently moved, but Aubrey had many others he needed to manoeuvre to achieve his ends. He'd already moved George, while his mother and father were safe (he hoped) where they were. But one other piece needed to be moved.

'I'll need assistance,' he said.

'Of course. Doyle will be useful, limited though he is.'

Good, Aubrey thought, underestimate George. It may prove handy. 'I'll need someone else.'

'I'll leave that to you.' Von Stralick leaned forward. 'The Marchmaine Independence League is holding a public meeting this evening at the Academy of Sciences. I will meet you around the corner at eight. Look for me by the statue of Marshal Beaumain.'

Von Stralick slipped out of the booth and was gone. Aubrey sat for a while, pondering the Holmlander's revelations and his future actions.

When he went to go, the proprietor stopped him. Von Stralick had left without settling the bill. Aubrey paid and left, his wallet lighter and his demeanour both grim and exhilarated.

HE MADE HIS WAY BACK TO THE UNIVERSITY AND FOUND THE Taxonomy Department. Summoning reserves of energy he didn't know he had, in a short space of time he'd blandished his way past an attractive secretary and into an unscheduled meeting with Professor Lavoisier, the head of the Department.

Aubrey decided that Lavoisier was the sort of man who would be extremely difficult to see on a foggy day. He was grey, in hair, complexion, clothing and manner. He held his pince-nez in his hand and regarded Aubrey with the attitude of someone who was already trying to decide which regulation or by-law was being infringed just by his presence.

'Now, young man,' Lavoisier said in impeccable Albionish, 'you're saying that this Miss Hepworth has been abusing our hospitality? In what way?'

'Misusing personal information,' Aubrey said smoothly. 'I'm sorry to inform you of this, Professor, but I feel it's my duty.'

'You don't mind if I take notes?' Lavoisier asked. It was one of the least question-like questions Aubrey had ever heard. The professor already had a fountain pen and a large ledger at hand even before Aubrey answered.

'Please do.'

Aubrey straightened his tie and hoped that Caroline would understand. An even better outcome would be if she never heard of this piece of subterfuge at all. Much better.

He wanted her assistance in the tangled mess he'd found himself in, and not just because of her undoubted abilities – he wanted her by his side, and he knew that she wouldn't be able to devote the necessary time if she was still immersed in her taxonomy studies. So the obvious remedy was to relieve her of those duties. No more study meant she'd have the time to spend on other matters. It all seemed perfectly reasonable to him.

He was sure he could get Caroline reinstated after he'd found the Heart of Gold. Public hero, friends in high places, a little string pulling should be straightforward. All would work out for the best.

'What sort of personal information?' Lavoisier asked.

'Apparently she's been inquiring after one of your correspondents, a Dr Romellier. Despite his need for privacy, she's been seeking his address.'

'Intolerable. I will cancel her invitation immediately. She will be disgraced.'

Aubrey blinked. 'Ah, not a wise course of action, I'd suggest. Especially since Albion–Gallian relations need to be kept warm. Miss Hepworth has influential friends.' He coughed behind a folded hand. 'The Prime Minister.'

Lavoisier went from grey to wintry to outright frosty. 'Politics.'

'A suggestion: cancel her position. Do it firmly but politely. Make bureaucratic excuses about resources or the like. That will be enough.'

Lavoisier was no fool. 'And what is your interest in this matter, Mr Derringford?'

When Aubrey had used the Ambassador's name as his own, he'd been anticipating this question. 'The Albion Embassy is concerned with the conduct of all Albion nationals who are in your country. If we can avoid scandal, so much the better. In these troubled times, if you take my meaning.'

The professor pursed his lips. 'You are rather young for such delicate business, aren't you?'

Aubrey smiled. 'I'm older than I look.'

WHEN CAROLINE WALKED OUT OF THE TAXONOMY Building, Aubrey was there under the red-tiled portico to bump into her.

'Caroline!' he said, doing his best to appear as if he wasn't on the verge of collapse. 'Good to see you!'

Aubrey's intentions, schemes and strategies shrivelled when he saw Caroline's face. He could tell she'd been crying, not because of any red puffiness, but simply because tears still hung on her lashes as if unwilling to leave.

'My position has been withdrawn,' she said. She waved a hand. It had a small, white handkerchief crushed within it. 'I no longer have a place to study.'

She sat on the base of one of the pillars that held up the building's decorative arches. She gripped her handkerchief in both hands and gazed, disconsolately, at the flagstones a few feet in front of her.

Aubrey's conscience took the opportunity to give him a substantial kicking. In quick succession, he felt regret, guilt and remorse and began to understand the fine distinctions between each of them. In the end, he abandoned such niceties and, simply, his heart went out to Caroline in her distress.

I've done the wrong thing, he thought and he felt hollow inside, but he remembered the loss of the Heart of Gold – and what it could mean. Sometimes, sacrifices have to be made.

'Tell me what happened,' he said.

Caroline adopted a brisk, business-like tone, but didn't look at him. 'An administrative bungle, they said. They claim they have only one position, and it's needed for a Gallian student. Rather unapologetic, they were.' She stood and frowned at the door out of which she'd just come. 'I've a good mind to go straight back up there and take them to task. I came here in good faith and I don't think I should be treated like this.'

Hastily, Aubrey took her by the arm and steered her in the opposite direction. 'Ah. Not a good idea, I'd say, things being a bit delicate between Gallia and us. We wouldn't want to confirm their suspicions that Albionites are all insufferable, would we?'

'Aubrey?'

'Yes?'

'I can walk all by myself, you know. You can let go of my arm.'

She set off. Aubrey fell in beside her. 'Your plans, then?'

'I don't know. Mother is well entrenched here with her round of appointments and engagements.' She glanced at Aubrey. 'It seems I'm at a loose end.'

'Loose end. Hmm.'

'It could give me some time to help Claude with his production.'

Aubrey nearly tripped on the smooth stone of the pavement, but gathered himself. 'Perhaps you'd like to come with George and me while we try to take care of those matters we discussed?'

They'd reached the street that led to the Hepworths' apartment. Caroline stopped and watched the traffic go by. 'I suppose I could find some time to help decide the fate of nations.' She lifted her eyes to the sky for a moment. 'It might give me a chance to see if I'm suited to this intelligence-gathering business.'

'Good. I'd feel better if you would. You're very . . .' He groped for something that wouldn't make him sound like a complete dolt. 'Capable.'

As soon as he said it, he felt the mantle of complete and utter dolthood settle on his shoulders. He accepted it.

'Thank you, Aubrey.' She set off along the pavement. 'Every young woman strives to be capable.'

'I –'

'Never mind. I'm sure you meant it as a compliment.'

As they walked, Aubrey explained about von Stralick and the meeting of the Marchmainers.

'That sounds a sensible place to start. What should I wear?'

'Dowdy would be good,' he suggested.

'We have a laundress who visits. I'll see if I can borrow something from her.'

Aubrey walked Caroline to her apartment, where Mrs Hepworth opened the door. She kissed her daughter on the cheek. 'Darling.'

'Mother. I have to go to a meeting tonight. With Aubrey.'

Mrs Hepworth considered this. 'A meeting. Why not a night at the ballet?'

'It's a political meeting, Mrs Hepworth,' Aubrey said.

She laughed. 'You are indeed your father's son, Aubrey.'

Before he could query this, Caroline cut in. 'You must be busy, Aubrey. We shouldn't keep you waiting.'

'Yes, but –'

'And what are you up to this afternoon?' Mars Hepworth asked.

From his list of urgent, pressing things to do, Aubrey plucked the first that came to mind. 'I have to find Alphonse Caron.'

'The document merchant? He's an old friend of mine.'

Sometimes things fall neatly, Aubrey thought. 'Do you know where he is?'

'I haven't actually seen Alphonse for years, but the last I heard he had a shop near the Meron Bridge. Let me look in my address book.'

She went into the apartment, leaving Caroline and Aubrey on the threshold.

Caroline fidgeted with her bag. 'Mother knows many people in Lutetia.'

'So I see. She's an intelligence operative of an altogether different kind.'

'If you need to find an artist or a writer, ask her.' Caroline paused. 'She knows many politicians, too. And generals.'

'I'm sure her address book is a veritable Who's Who.'

Mrs Hepworth appeared and held out a scrap of lavender paper. 'Here, I've written down his address.' She held it out. 'Now, Caroline darling, you promised that you'd model for me after lunch. I do want to finish that painting.'

Caroline sighed. 'Of course, Mother.'

They made their farewells. Aubrey stood transfixed on the doorstep.

Caroline? Modelling? He had difficulty in banishing some intriguing images from his mind.

He made his way down to the street without really knowing how. He cleared his throat, straightened his hat and made himself shipshape. A good, solid task was what he needed, even though he was bone-weary. He convinced himself that his skin and his aching joints were minor discomforts, and he read the scrap of paper that was still in his hand.

Always in favour of intelligence gathering before a frontal assault – or any assault, really – Aubrey saw that the address was only a few streets away. He resolved to investigate the address, then retire to the apartment to see what Bernard's notebook contained. And not forgetting the Heart of Gold, he thought, but he didn't even know where to start there.

The address was in one of the side streets that guidebooks would normally describe as 'quaint' or 'charming'. Aubrey found it depressing, but it could simply have been the unseasonably chilly breeze that was whipping down the cobblestones. It made the striped awnings over the shops snap in an unsettling fashion. The streetside tables were empty, patrons having been driven inside by the weather. They huddled, casting furtive glances at the day.

As he went, Aubrey was alert for more signs that the city was affected by the loss of the Heart of Gold. Apart from the weather, he did come across a number of backed-up drains and angry sewerage workers arguing over the cause. A natural explanation could be behind it, but the bafflement on the faces of the workers indicated that this was no ordinary occurrence.

When he took a shortcut through an alley that promised to take him from Providence Street to Lower Hospitality Street, he came across a sight that gave him pause. A mangy cat was backed against a wall, hissing, back arched. On the other side of the alley the cobblestones had collapsed and filthy water was flowing sluggishly from it.

The water was choked with dead rats.

Aubrey put a hand over his mouth, but forced himself to examine the rodents. Thin, with weeping sores, it was no wonder the cat didn't want anything to do with them.

All is not well, under the streets, Aubrey thought as he hurried from the alley. The possibilities made him cold.

Aubrey's destination proved to be an antique shop with a window display that suggested it specialised in documents. The window was lettered with discreet and expensive gold. Behind it lay an arrangement of calling cards, photographs and letters, all artfully ordered to highlight the signatures. His eyes widened when he recognised the name of at least one former king.

A voice from behind spoke in Gallian. 'Are you interested in our wares?'

Aubrey straightened. A dapper, middle-aged man with a pointed beard was smiling at him. His teeth were small and white. 'I have a modest collection,' Aubrey said.

'Ah, you are from Albion! If you would like to come inside, I have a number of items that you may find intriguing.'

The man took out a key, removed his grey homburg and unlocked the door. 'You are just opening?' Aubrey asked.

The man tapped the 'A. Caron' on the window. 'It is my shop. I open when I wish.' He stood on the threshold and smiled. 'Like you, I have a collection. This shop is merely an extension of it. I sometimes find it hard to part with particular items, but it finances my purchase of others.'

He stood back and gestured Aubrey inside.

'I understand.' Aubrey entered the shop. 'A collection is an addiction.'

'Worse.' Monsieur Caron removed his leather gloves and placed them with his hat on a glass-topped counter. 'A collection costs money in so many ways. It must be housed, for example.'

He waved an arm around the shop. Aubrey saw the walls were lined with drawers of many different sizes, a ladder on wheels allowing access to those closest the ceiling. Flat, glass-topped cabinets took up most of the floor space. Monsieur Caron pulled a cord and the room was flooded with electric light. He clucked his tongue. 'I fear the electricity may be bad for my documents, but what can be done? I keep most in the dark, but there is no joy in that. I must be able to see my treasures.' He cocked his head at Aubrey. 'If you will forgive me, it is not usual to find a young person interested in such items as these.'

'I know. None of my friends understands me.'

Monsieur Caron nodded sympathetically. 'Ah, I see. What is your specialty?'

'Letters.'

'Excellent. I have some interesting correspondence between one of your playwrights and a famous Gallian actress a hundred years ago. Good friends, they were.'

'Of course. But I'm more interested in recent history, politics, diplomacy, that sort of thing. But they must concern Albion.'

'It is a time to be aware of such things,' Monsieur Caron murmured. He tapped his chin with a finger. 'Do you realise that you have competition?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You're not the first to ask about such letters. A gentleman was in yesterday. He was particularly keen to see anything to do with the Treaty of St Anne.'

A peaceful, restful holiday, Aubrey thought as his head whirled with possibilities. That's all I wanted. He touched his forehead and winced.

'Are you unwell?' Monsieur Caron asked, concerned.

'No, no, just a little tired.'

Caron nodded. 'Many people are complaining about fitful sleep. Quite strange.'

Aubrey nodded. 'And this man asking about the Treaty of St Anne. Did he purchase anything?'

'No, for I didn't have anything to sell him. Not here. I keep my Albion items elsewhere.'

'May I see them? Tomorrow?'

'I'd be happy to bring them. My other customer didn't come back when we made similar arrangements.'

Aubrey took a wild guess. 'Holmlander, was he?'

Monsieur Caron looked startled. 'Why, no. Northerner, from his accent. From the look of him, I doubted if he had enough cash for such items, but he assured me that he had money.'

'A northerner? You mean from Marchmaine? Can you describe him?'

'Red hair, red beard. Stern, if scruffy.'

Aubrey had much to mull over after he left Monsieur Caron's establishment. Another thread had been thrown into the tangled mess that he was trying to unravel, and he felt all thumbs at the moment.

He trudged up the street, wanting nothing better than to lie down and close his eyes for an hour or two, but as he drew closer to Madame Calvert's residence, his spirits sank. Two police officers were waiting at the entrance.

They stood with their hands behind their backs and watched as he approached. He stood at the bottom of the stairs and waited as they shared significant glances. 'May I enter?' he asked.

They both nodded.

Waiting inside was Madame Calvert. Her hands were clasped, mouth pursed. 'I protect my guests, but this police officer was very insistent.' She nodded toward her sitting room.

Aubrey sighed. 'I'm sorry.'

'Do you need help? I have friends.'

'Thank you. No. Not yet.'

Aubrey went into the sitting room. Inspector Paul was holding his cap in his hands and was using a mirror to tend to his hair. George was sitting on the sofa and drumming his fingers on the armrest. A bruise was blooming on his cheek. 'Aubrey, old man!' he said, jumping to his feet. 'Good to see you!'

Inspector Paul turned smartly. 'Enough. Sit,' he said to George, in Albionish.

'What is going on?' Aubrey asked.

'I have arrested this person,' Inspector Paul said, indicating George, 'for acting suspiciously near a national monument.'

George grunted unhappily. 'Can't a chap do some genealogy business without being set upon?'

Inspector Paul drew himself up. 'We have just had an assault in our most sacred place. These are not happy times.'

George addressed himself to Aubrey. 'I wasn't doing anything, old man. Took some notes, rubbed some brass. Thought I was making good progress, even though I found quite a few buildings roped off and I couldn't get into them.'

'Skulking around tombs,' Inspector Paul put in, 'refusing to identify yourself.'

'I didn't know they were speaking to me,' George said. 'They kept talking in Gallian.'

Aubrey's head was pounding, red-hot spikes driving into his skull. He shouldn't have sent George off alone. He should have realised that Lutetia would be on edge after the theft of the Heart of Gold. 'I'm sorry, Inspector. It appears we've had a misunderstanding.'

'I felt that may be the case,' the Inspector said, frowning. 'That is why I brought him here instead of directly to Police Headquarters.'

'I appreciate it.' Aubrey felt it might be useful to return the favour. 'Inspector, are you still looking for the Soul Stealer?'

The police officer's face hardened. 'Soul Stealer? That is street gossip. I don't know what you mean.'

Tiptoeing around national pride and professional dignity, Aubrey tried again. 'The catatonics, the blank ones. I understand that more have been found.'

'We are dealing with the problem.'

'I may have a line of inquiry for you.'

Inspector Paul considered this, then tilted his immaculate head. 'Of course, it is my duty as an officer of the law to listen to any possible information that a member of the public may have.'

'I have reason to believe that someone has formed a magical method of stealing people's souls. A photographer may be involved.'

'A photographer? You expect me to find a photographer? The city is full of them, ever since the Great Exposition. Every second fool thinks he can point a camera and turn into a genius.'

'I'm sorry, Inspector. I thought it might help.'

'I should ask how you came by such knowledge, but I already think I know enough to realise that the story you would tell me would be long-winded, plausible, and impossible to disprove.'

'The truth can be hard to disprove.' He hoped this didn't sound as nonsensical to Inspector Paul as it did to him.

Inspector Paul studied him for long enough that Aubrey felt uncomfortable. 'Very well,' the Gallian said. 'You are free, Mr Doyle. Do not act suspiciously in future.'

The Inspector left. George raised an eyebrow at Aubrey. 'Do I look suspicious to you?'

Aubrey rubbed his temples. 'George, at the moment everything looks suspicious to me. Now, I need to lie down for a while.'

Nine

AUBREY SPENT MUCH OF THE AFTERNOON TRYING TO sleep, but a gnawing discomfort – a deep-seated throbbing inside his bones – wouldn't allow him to drop off. After lying on his bed, trying to find a comfortable position, he sat up and used a hand mirror to examine his hair. He wasn't vain – at least, he didn't think so – but the notion of losing his hair depressed him. It was dull, but he could hide that with discreet application of hair oil. If it continued to fall out, that was another matter.

He found a loose clump the size of a threepenny piece just behind his right ear. When it came free in his hand he stared at it glumly. Careful brushing covered it up, but the implications of the hair loss weren't so easily hidden.

In frustration, he took out Bernard's notebook in the hope that it would have some clues to alleviating his condition – or distract him, at least.

It achieved the latter, because the old magician's writing was anything but straightforward. Even if it hadn't been in Gallian, the task of reading it would have been a challenge.

Aubrey quickly forgot about his bodily discomfort. It didn't take him long to decide that Bernard had been a mercurial character. His writing sped across the page, often becoming blurred as he documented whatever phenomenon he was currently investigating. He also had a penchant for using different inks, often within the same sentence. The rapid changing of colours made the writing jump and dance.

Bernard's observations were eclectic. As well as whatever he was examining, he commented on weather, light levels, ambient sound, phases of the moon, and even developments in politics. Aubrey appreciated the way Bernard noted all factors influencing a magical experiment, but the old magician's notes showed the signs of obsession rather than care. When his jottings began to include counts of dust density, Aubrey sighed and closed the book.

He was sure some useful material lurked in the pages, but finding it was going to take time. He wondered if locating the Soul Stealer and prising some of his secrets from him mightn't be a quicker way to search for a remedy.

He went to the washbasin and splashed some water on his face. After patting it dry with one of Madame Calvert's wonderful towels, and ignoring his pale reflection, he wandered into the small living room of their apartment. George was stretched out on the chaise longue, snoring, with a copy of the Lutetian Sentinel on the floor beside him. A notebook with jottings from his genealogical investigations was under his head. Aubrey admired his friend's peace of mind, but it didn't stop him from waking him.

'Wake up, George. Dangerous deeds to do.'

George opened one eye. 'I wasn't asleep, just resting. Newspaper reading's a tiring task.' He reached behind his head and extracted his notebook. He leafed through it, frowning.

'Interesting?'

George grunted. 'Four churches, a converted monastery and a small graveyard. I've reached two dead ends in the family lines Prince Albert suggested, which will save us work in the long run, and I have a few promising leads to follow.'

Aubrey blinked. 'You did all that before you were arrested? I'm impressed.'

George sat up and brandished his notebook. 'Dashed interesting stuff, all of this. I'll need some help with dates and the like, but this history business is like . . .' He rubbed his nose, then brightened. 'Why, it's like what you do. It's a big puzzle, with pieces and hints and trails all over the place, and the challenge is to make sense of it all.'

Aubrey was cheered to see George so enthusiastic. 'So you actually made some progress?'

'Rather, old man. A long way to go, though.'

'Luckily, we don't have far to go this evening.' Aubrey held a finger in the air. 'Now, disguises.'

George swung his legs and sat up, groaning. 'Not disguises again, old man. I'll be fine as I am.'

'Necessary, I'm afraid. We have to blend in with a Marchmaine crowd this time.'

From his store of useful purchases, he assembled two outfits: dark-blue serge trousers, tough cotton shirts, woollen vests and cloth caps. He eyed them, chewing his lip. 'Boots,' he said. 'I'm not happy about our boots.'

'I am with mine, old man. Very comfy.'

'Too new, George. They don't look like workers' boots at all.'

'Well, surely not all these Marchmainers are hardhanded tillers and workers of the soil. They must have some educated types.'

'You're right. I've been stereotyping them.' He hated doing that. It usually went hand in hand with underestimating an opponent.

Eventually, Aubrey compromised. A second-hand pea jacket over the serge trousers. No cap. If confronted, Aubrey planned to claim they were university students who supported the cause. It would explain their youth and their city appearance.

On the way, they stopped at a café for a light meal before the evening's exertions. George quickly ate a sandwich and had another. Aubrey only ordered his because he thought it would look suspicious if he didn't. Nauseated, he stared sidelong at his ham and cheese sandwich and knew he couldn't stomach a bite. He made sure his sleeves were covering his forearms. He thought the skin was beginning to slough away there too. He tried to remember how many pairs of gloves he'd packed. The fresh air outside the café revived him somewhat.

The evening was lingering, stretching out the day. The light had a flat dullness about it, as if it were staying beyond its time. In the growing shadows, Aubrey had the uncomfortable feeling that the buildings on either side of the street were leaning inwards, glowering at him.

Eventually, they reached the Hepworths' apartment. Aubrey rang and Mrs Hepworth opened the door. 'Aubrey, dear. You look most disreputable. You too, George.'

Aubrey bowed. 'Thank you.'

'Perfect for your escapade, I'd say. I'll get Caroline. Come in, have a seat.'

George eyed Aubrey from the sofa. 'Disreputable, eh?' He wriggled his shoulders. 'I think I like being disreputable. It's probably wildly attractive to the ladies, wouldn't you say?'

'What would I know?' Aubrey muttered. The closer their rendezvous came, the more nervous he felt.

Caroline stepped into the room. Aubrey stood and, an instant later, so did George.

'Shall we go?'

'I like the dress,' Aubrey offered. 'Most appropriate, that shade of purple.'

'Mauve.'

'And the hat. Just perfect.'

'It's a bonnet.' Caroline looked at George. 'And what do you have to say?'

George spread his hands, grinning. 'I know nothing about women's clothes. I usually just say, "You look wonderful", but I don't think it's entirely appropriate here, since you're trying to look dowdy.'

'No.' Caroline bent and seized the hem of her dress. She lifted it to her knee. Aubrey took a sharp breath. 'I have my fighting uniform on underneath, just in case.'

'Be prepared,' Aubrey croaked. 'Very good. Excellent.'

'Oh, don't be so silly,' Caroline said. 'And stop laughing, Mother.'

Mrs Hepworth waved a hand. 'It's what I do when I see something funny, my dear. I can't help it.' Her face grew serious. 'You will be careful, though, won't you?'

'Of course.'

'And Aubrey, don't do anything reckless.' She paused. 'Don't do anything too reckless.'

'This is just information-gathering, Mrs Hepworth, nothing to worry about.'

'Nothing to worry about? It's obvious you've never been a parent.'

VON STRALICK WAS WAITING AT THE BASE OF THE STATUE OF Marshal Beaumain, as promised. He had a sketchbook and pencil in hand, and was offering a quick portrait to passers-by, for a price.

'Hello, von Stralick,' Aubrey said. 'What would you do if someone took you up on your offer?'

Von Stralick snorted. 'Stand still for a moment.'

The Holmlander studied Aubrey for a moment, then his pencil flew across the page. A quick glance and he was off again, furiously scratching, his pencil whipping across the paper with strong, assured lines. Five minutes later, he held up the book.

'Very accurate,' Caroline said. 'I like the way you've caught the vacant eyes.'

'The chin,' George said. 'Very good, that. Very . . .'

'Handsome?' Aubrey suggested. 'Forceful? Noble?'

'Very Fitzwilliam,' George finished, tactfully.

'Hmm. I didn't realise you were so talented, von Stralick.'

The Holmlander shrugged. 'It's a handy skill and a useful cover. I can sketch emplacements, faces, buildings. It's strangely less suspicious than a camera.'

A crowd had gathered in front of the Academy of Sciences. A robed figure of a woman representing Rational Inquiry frowned down from the carvings of the triangular pediment. She held a book, a globe and something that was either a sextant or a bad model of a sailing ship. Aubrey thought she seemed disapproving, as if rationality were in short supply in the people below her feet.

Aubrey noted the police as well. At least a hundred uniformed officers – and who knew how many plain clothes detectives – were out, but standing well back and allowing the Marchmainers and their sympathisers to move unhindered.

Von Stralick surveyed the crowd. 'I haven't seen any of the Sons of Victor.'

'They're sure to be here?' Aubrey asked.

'I've collected a number of handbills this week that say they will be speaking.'

Aubrey gazed over the heads that were moving steadily toward the entrance. At first he thought the crowd was mostly men, but soon revised his opinion when he saw more than a few women, perhaps making up a good third of the audience. Observe, he thought. Don't draw attention. Keep a neutral expression. Be ready to report later. Simple.

With a nod and a gesture, he gathered his friends and von Stralick. Hands in the pockets of his jacket, eyes down, he joined the throng.

A sharp right turn just inside the entrance, much shuffling and a few oaths stemming from trampled toes, through the wide doorway and they were inside the lecture hall.

The stage was brightly lit by hissing gaslight. Several straight-backed wooden chairs stood some distance behind a lectern. The proscenium arch was a gilt allegory detailing the role of science in agriculture and manufacturing. Aubrey liked the donkeys, particularly.

All the seats in the lecture hall were taken and people were still pouring through the doorway, so Aubrey and his friends had to find standing room at the rear.

It was clear that the Marchmaine independence movement was well supported.

More people crowded in, squeezing the already minimal space. On the positive side it meant that Aubrey was edged closer to Caroline. He could smell her perfume – rising green notes with a touch of sandalwood – and he reminded himself to compliment her on it later. He felt her arm against his and was determined not to move in any direction, unless it was closer.

He'd lost track of von Stralick, but George was on his right. 'Cheer and applaud when everyone else does,' he muttered. George nodded.

The murmuring around him rose and Aubrey saw six men and a woman mount the steps to the stage, all dressed in workaday clothes. The murmuring died down when one – a tall, balding man with a thin moustache – strode to the lectern.

For a moment the man stood there, surveying the crowd. His face was sombre. When he spoke, it was with the voice of a practised orator. 'Greetings, brothers and sisters,' he said with the clipped north Gallian accent. 'It is reassuring to see so many of you here tonight, especially after the dire events of our march.'

A growl went up from the audience.

'A dozen of our comrades are still in hospital,' the speaker continued, 'but we will not be stopped.'

A roar greeted this declaration, accompanied by stamping of feet and whistling.

The speaker waited for the din to die down. 'Events are moving quickly. The National Assembly is meeting tomorrow. The Prime Minister has called an emergency session to discuss our cause. Not,' he stared balefully at the crowd, 'to decide how best to move toward a free Marchmaine, but how to declare our movement illegal!'

The tumult that rose made the previous din sound like a tea party. Aubrey actually noticed dust drifting down from the ceiling as the entire hall shook with indignation.

'Your committee' – he swept an arm to encompass those sitting on the stage – 'is preparing to meet with Prime Minister Giraud to register our displeasure.'

Aubrey studied the others. They were uniformly grim-faced, but one man, in particular, stood out. He was the youngest of those on the stage. He had a close beard so red it was orange, with eyebrows and hair to match. He wore a distinctive scarf knotted around his neck – blue and white checks, with a blue border. His arms were crossed, his lips clamped shut and he greeted the speaker's words with minute shakes of his head.

The speaker licked his lips. 'We will prevail. Our committees are planning more fundraising, greater membership drives and a better organisational structure. We will, in time, swell to numbers so vast that the government will not be able to ignore us.'

Aubrey had heard more inspirational speeches and, apparently, so had many of the audience. A stocky man in the front row stood and shook his fist. 'Committees!' he shouted in guttural Gallian. 'I spit on your committees!' He pointed at the red-bearded man. 'Tell us about action, Gabriel! What do the Sons of Victor say?'

The red-bearded man grinned with a smile so ferocious that, for a moment, it seemed as if he were the only person on the stage. He strode to the lectern, which was quickly surrendered to him. He jabbed a finger at the audience. 'I say that the spirit of Martin Victor lives on! Marchmaine will be free!'

Aubrey started. For an instant, he'd been seized by an extraordinary sensation. He felt as if he were bobbing in the ocean and had risen up the face of a large swell, then dropped down the other side. He looked around, blinking, but no-one else seemed to have noticed a thing.

The rolling wave of magic came again. Aubrey's awareness nudged at him, painfully. He concentrated, and could feel that the magical pulse was ancient. It had a ponderous majesty that spoke of eons past. At first, he was worried that someone had set off another of the anger spells that had caused the riot at the Middle Bridge, but this magic was utterly different.

Someone screamed. Above, Aubrey saw the moon, half-hidden by clouds. A few stars were showing and he tried to make out the constellations to which they belonged. Then, with a shock that caught in his throat, he realised he was looking right through the ceiling of the Academy of Sciences.

He reached behind him and touched the wall, reassuring himself that the building was still there, because the walls of the auditorium were fading as he watched. It had become ghostly, insubstantial, in places as clear as glass, while in others it had become misty and translucent. When he pressed, his hand sank into the substance of the wall, and he jerked it out with a grimace.

Another scream cut through the hubbub, then shouts and cries of dismay as the audience took in what was happening. The walls, the stage, then the floor all began to grow fainter and fainter until the buildings and roads on either side of the Academy showed through.

A man shot to his feet. He clamped his cap on his head, then spun on his heel and ran up the aisle toward the rear doors. It was as if a signal shot had been fired. Pandemonium erupted. Everyone in the hall stood, shouting and pressing toward where they thought the exits were. A mass of humanity battered at the fading outline of the doors, thrusting them open.

'What's going on?' Caroline demanded over the uproar.

Aubrey didn't answer. He was being bombarded with waves of magic. They rolled over him, twisting at his magical awareness and leaving him gasping. His heart thudded in his chest as he tried to make sense of the mighty enchantment that was transforming the Academy of Sciences.

At the same time, he was not happy about being trapped in a mob. He knew that a panicked crowd was a dangerous beast, likely to behave unpredictably. There was no point trying to appeal to logic or better nature when fear was on the rampage.

The crowd had almost come to a standstill, caught in the bottleneck of the doors. He saw elbows being used, and punches started flying as those desperate to be out of the fading building tried to assert their claim for early exit. Women were flung aside, old men knocked over, umbrellas and walking sticks became weapons.

'We have to get out!' George shouted. His eyes darted from side to side, looking for imminent danger as the mob surged one way and then the other, seeking the exits. A number of the more panicked audience members were pushing at the unseen wall and struggled as if they were caught in thick glue.

Aubrey passed a hand over his face. He didn't need a physical challenge, not in his state. And he couldn't contemplate a magical solution either, especially given the magnitude of the enchantment that was on the loose.

He straightened. Dully, he noted that von Stralick had disappeared. Typical.

Over the tumult of the crowd, Aubrey heard the splintering of wood, then exclamations of surprise. Then came angry shouting and police whistles. The riot they anticipated may well have started, but through fear, not anger, he thought.

'Time to find a rear exit,' George shouted, pointing toward the stage that had faded unevenly, leaving enough to distinguish a possible way out.

George took the lead, acting as a battering ram. Aubrey followed gratefully in his path, and they managed to worm along a wall that was patchy in its solidity – partly ghostly, but stretches seeming almost unaffected. They stumbled onto the vacant stage, which was one of the more concrete-looking parts of the hall. A few others had the same idea and a ragged line of people staggered up the stairs, and into the wings, away from the tide of humanity that was still trying to crush through the remains of the main doors.

Aubrey followed George's broad back through the backstage darkness. A door loomed, with blessed fresh air gusting to them. George disappeared through it and Aubrey hurried after.

As soon as he was through, Aubrey was grabbed by rough hands. Before he could protest, he was pushed onto the flat bed of a wagon to join an angry-looking George. He scrambled, and saw Caroline tumbling to join them. She rolled neatly and came to a crouch, alert and ready to move. Aubrey felt like applauding, but he was shoved to one side, so that his back was to the sideboards. Caroline moved to a similar position nearby.

Out of the frying pan? Aubrey thought. But they didn't seem to be in any immediate danger, and he decided that demands for information may not be the best course of action in such a tense situation. He caught Caroline's eye, then nodded at George, who was sitting on Caroline's right. Wait, he mouthed.

He studied the others in the cart. They were the same motley assortment as had been in the lecture hall, except for one that made Aubrey very interested indeed: Gabriel, the red-haired firebrand from the Sons of Victor.

A voice shouted, a whip cracked and the wagon lurched off down the narrow alley. Behind them, the Academy building had become an apparition, a ghostly replica of itself that faded as he watched. It hung against the night sky, misty and grey, as if it were made of smoke.

When the wagon swung out onto the Boulevard of Industry, the gas street light showed that Gabriel was staring at them ferociously.

'You are not Marchmainers.' He pulled out a knife.

Time slowed. Aubrey could see the knife had a leather handle. He could see that it had a nick on the back of the blade. He could see that Gabriel's knuckles were torn and bloody.

Time for a plausible story, he thought. Very plausible, very fast.

'No, sir,' he said in his best Gallian. He felt it was best to be polite to a man who was brandishing a big knife. 'We're from Albion.' There, that should buy me some time to come up with something.

'So? I thought as much,' said Gabriel in Albionish. Aubrey tried to place his accent. It was Marchmainer, but with an odd inflection, slightly emphasising each t. 'It doesn't mean I shouldn't kill you.'

'Ah.'

Aubrey felt both Caroline and George tensing, ready to tackle Gabriel. He shook his head and they subsided.

Gabriel had three compatriots. They were big, thicknecked, and Aubrey decided that all of them had been destined to work as bodyguards from the time they could walk.

'We're Marchmaine supporters,' Aubrey said quickly. 'Many Albionites admire the struggle for Marchmaine independence and want to help. And we see Martin Victor as one of the great political figures of the nineteenth century.'

'Of course you'd say that. I have a knife.'

'What can I do to prove it, then?'

Gabriel spat over the side. 'You can't. But you can tell me why I shouldn't kill you now.'

Before Aubrey could say anything, Caroline spoke. 'Ransom.'

Gabriel's knife didn't move, but he flicked a glance at her. 'Go on.'

'My mother is a wealthy woman. She has many influential friends. I'm sure she'd be happy to make a large donation to the Marchmaine cause – as long as we're unharmed.'

Gabriel's knife disappeared. He smiled, but Aubrey found it as disconcerting as his menacing expression. 'I'm glad we were able to rescue three Marchmaine supporters from the Lutetian authorities. They are probably assaulting the others as we speak.'

Gabriel banged on the driver's seat and growled a few words. The driver whistled and urged his horse ahead.

'All right,' Gabriel said. 'I think it best if we leave the vicinity for a while. The police may be after us.'

'Why?' Aubrey asked. 'Surely it can't be illegal to hold a political rally in the capital of Gallia?'

Gabriel snorted. 'That shows how little you know of Gallian politics. The police will find some excuse to arrest many of our people, my friend.'

Aubrey didn't feel as if he wanted to be Gabriel's friend, but he did want to learn more about Gallian politics. 'Tell us more.'

For the next hour, as they wound their way north-west through the city, Gabriel spoke at length about the Marchmaine cause and how just it was. He was particularly strident about how weak the leaders of the Marchmaine Independence League had become, and how it was time for the Sons of Victor – as the true upholders of Marchmaine independence – to assume control of the struggle.

'Through proper democratic processes,' he said, grinning with cold eyes. 'Of course.'

'Of course,' Aubrey echoed.

Eventually, the surroundings became less residential and more industrial, with street lights much less frequent. A large complex with the heady tang of a brewery stood on the edge of what appeared to be open fields and Aubrey realised they were on the edge of the city, where it gave way to countryside. The air was cleaner, fresher, altogether more wholesome.

They turned left off the main road, travelling for another fifteen minutes through dark and flat lands with few signs of habitation. Then they rejoined the main road where the countryside became more thickly wooded, with a dense forest of conifers bordering the road. Ahead, Aubrey could see lights.

'Blockade ahead,' Gabriel said, noticing Aubrey's interest. 'Not to worry. We turn off before it.'

True to his word, the cart almost immediately turned left, through a gate. A well-laid road led to a tall fence, another gate and a guard house. Beyond the fence lay a flat, cleared expanse, surrounded by forest, with buildings in the distance. A number of them showed lights. On the other side of the buildings, enormous cigar shapes bobbed in the light breeze.

Aubrey stared. They were at an airfield.

Gabriel grunted to his colleagues. 'Saltin has scored himself a fine job here. His promotion has made him chief of the engineers.'

'You know Captain Saltin?' Aubrey said.

'Why?'

'He was in Albion recently. George and I saved his life.' Caroline raised an eyebrow. 'You didn't tell me about this.'

'Err. I meant to.'

'Enough,' Gabriel said. 'We'll see if Saltin remembers you.'

They were marched to the guard house. George leaned close. 'Are we safe enough?'

'For the time being.' Aubrey rubbed his hands together. Slipping away from these ruffians would seem to be the best course of action, but this was an opportunity to gather information – and he couldn't ignore that. 'Be ready. We may have to move quickly.'

George gave a surreptitious wink. Then he leaned against the fence and did his best to look like a harmless Albionish buffoon, smiling cheerfully and gazing about with benign interest. It was a guise he sometimes used, and Aubrey knew that it made people take him too lightly – often to their detriment.

Gabriel spent some time with the guards, finally leaving them with laughter and encouraging slaps on the back.

He rejoined Aubrey and the others. 'We go to the main hangar. Saltin is there.'

They left the wagon at the gate. The Sons of Victor fell in around Aubrey and his friends. Aubrey had the impression that while they weren't exactly being guarded, the Marchmainers didn't fully trust them, either.

Aubrey counted six dirigibles on the far side of the airfield, moored to their masts. Five were the regular VT model, and showed no running lights, but one was different. It had a distinctively shaped gondola, while the tail array was one he'd never seen before.

They skirted a cluster of smaller buildings and rounded a number of large, domed fuel stores. Gabriel led them to the third of four enormous buildings, both ends of which were made up entirely of immense doors. The doors were closed, so Gabriel took them to a smaller, humansized entrance. It rolled back with a screech of metal.

Inside, the space was gargantuan, large enough to build mountains. It was lit by huge electric lights dangling from the far-off ceiling like upside-down mushrooms. The place was still, tense with the thunderstorm tang of ozone.

Gabriel herded them toward a workbench, but Aubrey had no eyes for it. In the middle of the hangar, surrounded by an immense scaffold, was the beginnings of an airship.

He'd never seen a partially constructed dirigible before. It looked like the skeleton of a creature from the dawn of time. Giant ribs that would one day be covered by a skin of aluminium were evenly spaced along the central keel. The supports for the enormous gasbags that would give the ship its lift were in place. Nothing had been done on the control car or the motors.

Aubrey was in awe of the grace of the thing. While some people found airships ponderous, he always thought of them as stately, unhurried in a time where speed was a god.

Gabriel condescended to notice Aubrey's admiration. 'You like our dirigibles?'

'I do. The Gallian service has come up with some remarkable advances.'

'Gallian? It is Marchmainers who are the core of the Dirigible Corps. We are the best pilots, the best navigators, the best engineers. And here is the best of the best.'

A uniformed figure strode toward them.

'Ah, Saltin!' Gabriel called.

Aubrey saw that Saltin's left hand was still bandaged, but his eyebrows and hair were well on the way to growing back. He gripped Gabriel's hand. 'My friend!' he said to Gabriel. 'I have an airship ready for your departure as you requested. One hour and you will be in Marchmaine.'

Gabriel glowered. 'We cannot go. We do not have the treasure yet.'

Saltin opened his mouth to speak, but then he saw Aubrey. His eyes widened. 'No, this cannot be!'

'What is it?' Gabriel asked.

'This is my saviour! Gabriel, I would not be here today without him.' He took a pace and embraced Aubrey, then kissed him on both cheeks. 'Fitzwilliam, I'm glad you're finally here,' he said in Albionish. 'Have you come to see our revolutionary new 200 design?' He saw George. 'And your friend!' This led to another bout of embracing and cheek kissing.

Saltin was a Marchmainer, but he was still a Gallian. When he saw Caroline, he was overcome. 'And who is this wondrous creature? Another friend of yours, Fitzwilliam? If so, you are fortunate indeed.'

Aubrey made the introductions. Saltin bowed. 'I am delighted to meet you, Miss Hepworth.'

'I am not a creature,' she said.

'I beg your pardon?' Saltin wrinkled his brow.

'I am a human being, as much as anyone. Not a creature.'

'Ah, please excuse my boorishness! I do not know what I am saying.' Saltin put his hand on Aubrey's shoulder. 'I am glad you are here. I did not have the chance to thank you in true fashion, with a toast. I have a bottle or two from the family cellars in my office.'

'No time for that now,' Gabriel said sourly. 'Is he who he says he is? An Albionite?'

'Of course he is. How could the son of their Prime Minister be anything but?'

While Aubrey watched Gabriel's expression change from suspicion to astonishment, he tried to think how he could turn this revelation to his advantage.

'Sir Darius's son?' Gabriel said with tones that suggested that this was a synonym for 'a useful political lever'.

'I have that honour.'

George wandered to a nearby workbench and reached for a spanner. 'Don't touch that,' Gabriel snapped.

George raised an eyebrow at Aubrey, who translated for him. 'He doesn't speak much Gallian,' he explained to Gabriel, then he frowned and rubbed his hands together. Magic was stirring, somewhere nearby. 'What's that noise?'

From outside the hangar, shouts and cries of fear competed with a deep, growling sound. He turned in time to see two Marchmainers running through a door. One of them had blood streaming from his forehead. Aubrey stared. They were being chased by a bear.

Aubrey had seen bears in the zoo – fat, lazy creatures who looked as if they'd enjoyed a bun too many. This beast was recognisably related, but only in the same way that a pug and a wolf were cousins.

It was huge, the size of a bull. Great muscles moved underneath its fur, driving massive limbs toward its prey. As it came through the doorway, its flank crashed against the metal, bending it out of shape. It paused, then reared onto its back legs, roaring and slashing at the air with wicked claws.

The roar echoed around the hangar, and slipped straight past the usually competent filter of Aubrey's brain. Instead, it went directly to some small, hidden gland that seemed to have the responsibility for inducing marrow-freezing terror when confronted by a bear. The gland may have been a busy worker in the early days of humanity, but with the dearth of bears in the last few centuries it had been quite idle for a long time. Judging by the effects the roar was having, Aubrey guessed the gland was making up for lost time.

He broke out in a cold sweat. His legs trembled and his feet were moving, ready to help him run for his life. His heart thundered, and his mouth went dry.

Then the bear dropped to all fours and charged at the fleeing Marchmainers, moving from its sitting position to motion in one, smooth action. The nearest Marchmainer made a lucky decision and darted sideways. The bear tried to change direction but skidded on the concrete floor and crashed into a barrel of scrap iron. It sprawled for a moment, then it rolled and sat up, shaking itself just like a wet dog.

The clangour seemed to waken the onlookers from a dream. Gabriel whipped out his knife, then stared at it and the bear. He jammed it back in its sheath with a curse.

Caroline shook her sleeve and a length of iron bar fell into her hand. Before Aubrey could wonder where she'd got it from, she threw it at the bear. It struck the animal in the chest, but, apart from drawing its attention, had no other effect. The bear dropped to all fours and shook its muzzle, which was, Aubrey noted with misgiving, bloody.

Then he realised that the magic he'd felt was coming from the bear.

He backed up a step, heart racing in his chest, and bumped into the workbench. He felt behind him, without taking his eyes from the very unhappy bear.

'Don't move suddenly,' Saltin said. 'He may not be interested in us.'

'I don't care,' Aubrey said. 'I'm sure being attacked by an uninterested bear hurts just as much as being attacked by an interested bear.'

'No doubt you are right.'

Aubrey locked eyes with Caroline. 'Bears can climb.'

'Trees,' she said, 'but it may not know much about scaffolding.'

'Neither do I,' said George, 'but I'm willing to learn, and very quickly.'

The two Marchmainers who had been the bear's original prey had managed to scramble over the scrap heap and to put a flat-bed lorry between them and the brute. One had armed himself with a length of chain while the other had a sheet of galvanised iron.

With slow, deliberate movements, Caroline took off her bonnet and kicked off her shoes to stand in bare feet. Then, to the amazement of the Marchmainers, whose attention was torn between her and the bear, she discarded her dress to stand, poised, in what she'd called her fighting uniform.

It was black silk, a two-piece outfit – jacket and trousers, tied with a cloth belt about her waist. Aubrey had seen her in it before, but familiarity had not dulled the experience.

Caroline caught him staring and rolled her eyes. He held up a hand in mute apology, but he felt inspired enough to try some magic. He was sure he could conjure up something, even given his diminished reserves of strength.

After all, he thought, it's only a bear.

His binding spell wouldn't be strong enough to hold the massive creature. He'd used the stinking cloud recently enough to feel confident in rolling it out again, but the notion chafed at him. It would be like telling a joke twice. Not good showmanship.

A spell suggested itself. The Law of Thermal Impermanence said that the longer the duration of magically conjured heat, the more difficult the spell. But if he could cast a number of tightly focussed, short-lasting spots of heat on the floor, he may be able to herd the bear back outside. Neat, harmless, but it should prove to be quite dramatic. The spell was undemanding, and he was sure he could handle it.

He aligned the elements in his mind, then he pronounced them crisply so that the first spot of heat would appear right under the bear's rear paws.

The animal growled, then leaped to one side in an ungainly bound. It peered suspiciously at its feet, but Aubrey was ready. He repeated the spell with different locational coordinates and the bear lumbered forward again, huffing as it shuffled away from the hot spot.

Aubrey was aware that Caroline was watching him closely. George inched around the bench while the bear was distracted. 'I'll slam the door if you can get him outside,' he said.

The bear sniffed, trying to find what was tormenting it. Aubrey snapped out the spell twice in quick succession and felt a surge of dizziness. He ignored it and the bear dropped into a rolling waddle.

That's right, Aubrey thought as the beast came closer to the open door. Keep going that way and I won't have to do it again.

The bear reached the door, then it shied away, turning its massive body around.

No you don't, thought Aubrey, and he cast the spell again, with a little extra in the element for intensity. One good jolt might be enough.

A teeth-jarring thump and clouds of oily smoke exploded into the air. 'Who set the oil sump on fire?' Gabriel shouted, then Aubrey lost sight of him.

The bear disappeared in the roiling billows, roaring its displeasure. The door vanished. The workbenches and eventually the dirigible were swallowed up. Overhead, the electric lights struggled with the smoke and looked like tired suns.

Coughing, eyes streaming, Aubrey dropped to the floor, looking for sweet air. He heard curses and crashes and the sound of a frightened animal looking for a way out of this hellish place. He peered about frantically, trying to see if the bear was near, but even though the air was clear near the concrete floor, he couldn't see far.

Then, with a start, he realised he wasn't smelling anything.

The smoke, he thought. It should be biting, acrid, awfulsmelling. He took a deep sniff but nothing came to him. His senses were failing, and he rested his forehead against the cool concrete in despair.

A hand touched his and he jumped. 'It's me,' whispered Caroline. She crouched at his side. She had a handkerchief tied over her mouth and nose. 'The scaffolding is about twenty yards over there.'

'Have you seen George?' Aubrey knelt, like a sprinter ready to run. The smoke made his eyes stream, and he dashed the tears away with the back of his hand.

'He went in that direction.'

More roaring came through the smoke, and this time it was followed by screams of pain.

Slowly, they moved away from the sound of the bear. Soon, Aubrey's outstretched fingers found metal. With relief, he grasped the uprights of the scaffolding surrounding the dirigible. 'Here,' he whispered.

He held out his hand to Caroline and felt a thrill when she took it. He guided her to the scaffolding and they climbed to the heights, where the smoke was eyestingingly thick. Aubrey's throat felt as if it had been rubbed with coarse sandpaper, but he still couldn't smell anything at all. His deterioration was accelerating.

The scaffolding enclosed a catwalk that ran around the entire construction. Aubrey was close enough to the skeleton of the dirigible that he could touch it. Through the smoke it could have been the remains of a fairytale castle, great towers and turrets thrusting through the mist.

Aubrey felt the movement of air on his face. 'Good man.'

'What is it?'

'George has opened the hangar doors. Now, we need to open the other end to get some real air flow. The smoke won't go until we do.'

'Follow me.' She saw Aubrey's expression. 'I have a better sense of direction than you do.'

Harsh, but fair, he thought. 'Lead away.'

Caroline moved in a half-crouch, gracefully slipping along the catwalk. Aubrey endeavoured not to clang along the iron grating, but he was sure that anyone near would be able to track their movements.

Caroline stopped, crouched even lower, and held up a hand.

He drew close. 'What is it?'

'I saw someone ahead. In the construction area.'

Aubrey chewed his lip. Workers wouldn't be here this late. Inspectors of some sort? Wouldn't they be raising a hue and cry? Perhaps Saltin had somehow managed to make his way through the belly of the dirigible.

Suddenly, blinding white light erupted from up ahead, followed by a thumping blast and a wave of heat. The whole hangar shook with the explosion. The scaffolding swayed dangerously. Somewhere, glass shattered. Crashes and the groans of crumpling girders rippled through the smoke. Aubrey was nearly thrown from the catwalk but clutched at a strut with both hands. He hung, gasping. Purple flashes bounced in front of his eyes, but he felt no taint of magic. It was a chemical explosive, but no less devastating.

He dangled, trying to get his breath back, and saw Caroline stretched out on the catwalk nearby. He was about to cry out when she slipped to her feet and dragged him up. He stood and gripped the scaffolding, unwilling to let go completely.

'What was that?' he shouted to Caroline. As he did, a flat crack sounded from the far side of the hangar. His hands went numb, and he heard a sharp ringing. He hissed and let go of the scaffolding, shaking his hands.

He stared at the pipe. A dent and a long, bright streak showed where a bullet had barely missed him.

Caroline moved her head from left to right, peering through the smoke, which was now denser than ever. 'What –'

She didn't have a chance to finish her question, because Aubrey clapped his hand over her mouth, wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled them both down.

Just before they hit the catwalk, he felt her body twist so that he'd land first. He also felt his thumb seized, twisted and bent to the point of breaking, while her knuckle rested just over a pressure point at the base of his throat.

They landed. He grunted at the bright pain from his hip, which took most of the fall. He stifled a yelp and pleaded with his eyes for silence as a bullet passed through the space they'd previously occupied. It ricocheted, whining, from a girder.

He lay there, half-stunned, with Caroline on top of him. It was a situation he'd dreamed of, but he was in no condition to enjoy. She released her grip. She wriggled to one side and put her mouth close to his ear. 'Sorry. I thought you'd gone mad and were attacking me.' Her eyes darted. 'A marksman?'

Her breath tickled, but it was a sensation he was prepared to endure. He turned to see her face close to his. He swallowed, then whispered. 'At least one.'

He pulled back and, in the middle of smoke, shooting and a runaway bear, he took an instant to gaze at her face.

She was beautiful, he knew that, but she carried it with an air of such self-possession, such breathtaking intelligence and competence that it became almost secondary. Almost. She was such a pleasure to behold that he always – always – had trouble not staring.

'What are you looking at?' she whispered.

He shook his head. He knew it wasn't an answer, but it would do for now. From below came shouts. Aubrey hoped the poor bear had escaped to the open air rather than been shot.

Air movement on his face made him grin. Smoke streamed past and the hangar started to clear. The ribs of the dirigible emerged and Aubrey had his first opportunity to see the havoc that had been wrought by the explosion.

The entire front quarter of the frame had been wrecked. The ribs had collapsed, half-melted and twisted by heat. The exquisite proportions of the dirigible were now a mess. Months of work had been destroyed.

'Saboteurs.' Aubrey wondered what this would mean to the Gallian dirigible program.

'Now is the time to go. You can mourn later.'

She took his arm and hurried him down the catwalk toward the open hangar doors. A motor started up, while more shouts came from behind them. Aubrey hunched his shoulders but no shots came their way.

Reaching the gap where the scaffolding had been destroyed by the blast, Caroline swung down, while Aubrey went more slowly, unsure of his balance, feeling the strain on his shoulders and elbows.

Caroline landed like a cat. She grinned with fierce exhilaration. 'Follow me,' she said. 'Try to keep up.'

'I'll do my best.'

A shot snapped past overhead, close enough for Aubrey to hear it hum. 'That may be wise,' Caroline said and she was off.

Even if Aubrey had been in tiptop condition, he would have struggled. Caroline vaulted over a twisted girder, leaped across a stretch of shattered concrete and then slid on her back under a tangle of scaffolding that had fallen from overhead – and all without seeming to slow down.

Aubrey followed doggedly, with less speed and definitely less grace. Caroline waited for him, unsnagging his jacket from a bundle of ragged wires that projected from the scaffolding. 'Which way?' Aubrey panted as she helped him to his feet. Ahead was a snarl of sheet metal and timber that had once been the roof.

'To the left.'

A volley of arms fire came from behind them. For a few seconds, the hangar was a riot of ricochets, shouts and running feet. A bullet screamed off a steel support nearby, sending sparks leaping.

'To the left it is.'

Caroline danced along an inclined beam then used a heavy metal pipe to lever aside a mass of splintered plywood that towered head high. Aubrey joined her and leant his weight to the pipe. They forced the plywood aside and there, only yards away, were the giant hangar doors, open to the night and fresh air.

Caroline gripped the pipe. 'Quickly. You first.'

Aubrey shook his head. More arms fire sounded, but it seemed to be moving away from them. 'No. You go.'

Caroline grinned. 'Right,' she said, and she was off.

Aubrey blinked. He'd been expecting an argument.

Then, without Caroline's weight, the pipe jerked upwards. Aubrey realised he was on the wrong end of the lever, with hundreds of pounds of timber on the other end. He let go just in time to stop it snapping upwards and breaking his jaw. The plywood crashed to the ground, sending dust flying.

Hoarse shouts responded and suddenly the gunfire was definitely aimed in his direction. Crouching as best he could, Aubrey scrambled over the top of the plywood, the whole jumble shifting and moving underneath him as he went. For one sickening instant he thought it was going to give way and he'd be trapped, but he skated the last few yards and rolled off just as the sheets collapsed, collapsing with a crunch that made Aubrey flinch.

He came to his feet to see Caroline waiting at the door. 'What took you so long?'

Aubrey jerked a thumb over his shoulder. 'I wanted to make sure it'd be hard to follow.'

'I see.' Caroline frowned. 'You're bleeding.'

Aubrey stared stupidly at his hand. A line of red dripped from the base of his thumb. 'I must have sliced it on the timber.'

'No time to worry about that now,' Caroline said. She took his other hand and pulled him through the doorway.

A lorry was waiting for them at the hangar door, motor turning over. 'All aboard,' George called. 'If you'd like a lift, that is.'

Caroline leapt into the cabin. Aubrey followed. 'George, you're a lifesaver.'

'One of my many talents.' The wheels spun and the lorry shot forward. 'Now, where to?'

'Somewhere a long way from bears, fanatics and exploding airships,' Caroline said, but her eyes were bright with excitement.

'Seconded,' Aubrey said fervently and the lorry hurtled toward the gate.

George was driving without headlights. He squinted, concentrating on the gravel road. 'They have many bears in Lutetia, do they, Aubrey?' he shouted over the screaming motor.

'Not that I know of. Caroline?'

'I've never heard of any.'

George grunted and changed gear. 'Didn't think so.' The lorry skidded on gravel as they rounded a shed and headed for the gate. 'That'll be another mystery then.'

Aubrey didn't answer. He saw a figure sprinting toward them from between two sheds. He didn't have time to cry out a warning before the man threw himself at the lorry. With a thump, he struck the door right next to Aubrey and clung, holding the mirror, scrambling until his feet found the running board. Aubrey was about to shove the stranger away when he recognised the frightened, angry face.

'Von Stralick!' Aubrey cried. 'What are you doing here?'

'Drive! Drive!' The Holmlander was pale. 'They have rifles. They tried to kill you – and me.'

It was enough for George. He accelerated, ignoring potholes, and aimed straight for the gate.

'Who tried to kill you?' Aubrey shouted above the protesting of the lorry. 'The Sons of Victor?'

Von Stralick gripped the window and the mirror, squinting through the wind, his shoulders hunched – fearing a marksman, Aubrey guessed. 'No! Holmlanders!'

Aubrey stared at the flaming ruins of the hangar. Holmlanders trying to kill Holmlanders? Sabotage? He shook his head. What had begun as a tangle had grown into a mess – and it had every indication of becoming an all-encompassing nightmare.

Ahead, the lights of Lutetia burned sullenly, making the city look brooding and fretful in the night.

Ten

THEY REACHED THE STREETS OF LUTETIA IN THE SMALL hours of the day. A few cabs were edging their way through the darkness, hooves making hollow echoes on the cobblestones. The city was sleeping, but Aubrey imagined that the dreams were uneasy, filled with a sense of loss and longing.

Aubrey was worried to see a distinctive series of posters slapped onto buildings. They stood out from those advertising cabarets and wines. Crudely done, with slashes of red and black, all were promising doom: 'We are Lost!', 'Prepare for the End!', 'There is no Hope!'. Aubrey saw dozens of them, all insisting that disaster was just around the corner for Lutetia.

Despite the lack of traffic, George drove the lorry slowly, taking care because of the noisy motor. They trundled through the boulevards and wide thoroughfares, worming their way through the suburbs. Von Stralick huddled in the back of the lorry, having found it more comfortable than clinging to the side of the vehicle.

He'd given Aubrey much to think about. The Holmlander's revelation that his countrymen had been responsible for the shooting in the hangar made little sense. If they were Holmlanders, why had they been shooting at von Stralick? If they weren't, what sort of a double-game was he playing, blaming the shooting on his compatriots?

Aubrey sat in the cabin of the lorry, brooding, even after Caroline had helped him bind a handkerchief around the slash on his thumb, which bled steadily.

On top of the possible Holmland link, Aubrey could add a soul-stealing photographer, a mysterious ornithologist, a rampaging bear, unknown Marchmainers wanting his grandmother's letters, a missing artefact that possibly held the fate of the Gallian nation, and hordes of villains, troublemakers and blackguards who were busy stirring up mischief to ensure the Giraud government would fall.

A meal fit for a king, he thought sourly, and winced when he remembered he should add Bertie's quest to the menu. Of course, if he were being selfish, he could also include the puzzle of his own condition and how best to restore it.

They drew close to the centre of the city, crossing St Cyr Bridge. A thump came on the cabin roof. 'Stop here!' von Stralick said. George rolled the lorry to a halt under a street light, but left the motor running.

Aubrey's sense of smell that told him where they were. 'The fish market? Why do you want to stop here? And don't you have some explanations for us?'

A squat red-brick façade stood in front of them. The sculptures of two jaunty-looking halibut loomed over the wide doorway, but the entrance was shut. However, a steady stream of rubber-booted and macintoshed men made its way to the rear of the building. Most of them were carrying boxes of shining fish.

Von Stralick leapt from the back of the lorry. 'No time for that. I must go. But beware of Holmlanders in Lutetia. Some very bad men are here.'

With that counsel, he was away and down the alley.

Caroline leaned out of the window of the lorry and watched the spy's progress. 'Do you want me to see where he goes?'

'He's probably well away already,' Aubrey said. 'I'll wager he had a boat waiting for him on the other side of the market, where it banks on the river.'

'And where are we going?' she asked.

'Well, we should take you home,' George said. 'It's late.'

'It may be late, but what have we achieved? Isn't there anything more we can do?'

Aubrey considered this. 'George, let's drive by the Academy of Sciences. I'd like to see what's happening there.'

THE STREET WAS BLOCKED A GOOD FIFTY YARDS FROM THE Academy of Sciences. And, in a miracle of efficiency, the whole building had been fenced off. Scaffolding enclosed the place, while dozens of large tarpaulins were being draped from gables. It was difficult to see whether the Academy had faded any more or had regained its solidity. Scores of police were present, despite the early hour, but they appeared aimless and uncertain in the face of the phenomenon. Lamp posts on the other side of the street were the gathering point for many of them, and they dedicated themselves to smoking.

Aubrey was very interested to see a number of people who were clearly not police. Their uniforms were different – flat, shapeless caps, no trimmings on the shoulders of their dark-green jackets – but they didn't look like army personnel. They moved around the site in pairs, pausing often to crouch and touch the ground.

Inspector Paul was just outside the hastily constructed wooden hoardings. His harried expression was illuminated by gaslight. Two burly constables were with him, standing either side of a nervous-looking man.

A wild bellowing jerked Aubrey's attention away from the Academy of Sciences. He stared, astonished, along Fortitude Street. For a moment he wondered if he had fallen asleep and were dreaming.

An enormous bull was galloping toward them. It was at least six feet tall at the shoulder, with a dark, shaggy hide and huge, forward-pointing horns. It thundered past the lorry and then, without slowing, it charged the police officers who were strung across the road.

'Good Lord,' George said. 'A bull in the middle of Lutetia.'

'Aurochs,' Aubrey said. He was pleased at how calm his voice was. 'It's not a bull, it's an aurochs.'

'Aurochs,' Caroline repeated. Police were scattering, throwing themselves out of the path of the furious creature. It swung its wicked horns from side to side, bellowing, and the way opened in front of it.

'The ancestor of modern cattle. Huge, wild, dangerous. Extinct now, of course. Last one died in West Faldenland about five hundred years ago.'

'Five hundred years ago?' George said. 'Then what's one doing here, throwing Lutetian police around like chaff?'

'You ask that as if you expect me to have an answer.'

'You usually do, old man.'

Caroline tapped her cheek with a finger. 'Bears, aurochs, buildings disappearing. I don't recall the guidebooks mentioning this sort of thing as a feature of Lutetia.'

'No. This is out of the ordinary, I feel confident we can say that.'

'Magic, then?' Caroline said.

Aubrey was slow in replying. Much was going on here, but none of it was clear. 'I'd say so, but it's a kind I'm not familiar with.' A disturbing, unsettled magic, he thought, and potentially very dangerous.

The aurochs finally burst through the last of the police cordon. Blue uniforms stumbled aside, then it made off down the road with police chasing at a respectable, and safe, distance.

'Are you saying that's a magical bull?' George said.

'An aurochs.' Aubrey opened the door of the lorry. 'As it went past, I definitely felt magic at work.'

'Where are you off to?' George asked, his door already half-open.

'Intelligence gathering.' He struck a pose – hand on his chest, shoulders back, head up. 'When the fog of war is at its worst, information is the beacon to light your way.'

'Another gem of wisdom from the Scholar Tan?' George asked as he joined Aubrey on the pavement.

'Naturally.'

Caroline slid from the lorry and joined them. 'You're not leaving me behind.'

Aubrey didn't argue. He thought she looked exotic and formidable in her fighting outfit. If there were any city in which she could openly wear such a garment, it was Lutetia, with its thespians, artists and assorted savants, entertainers and dignitaries from far-flung lands. Lutetian citizens were notoriously blasé about costumes that would shock the good folk in Albion.

'Now, at four o'clock in the morning, after surviving a riot at a political rally, a bear attack and being shot at in a dirigible hangar, shall we take a stroll to see what we can find out from a suspicious police inspector?'

When Caroline took the arm he offered, he was delighted. 'Thank you,' she said gravely, nodding, as if he'd asked her to accompany him on a promenade in the park.

Together, they set off, with George chuckling behind them.

'Constable,' Aubrey said in his best Gallian to the officer behind the remains of the barricade. 'I need to see Inspector Paul.'

Aubrey decided that the constable had long ago chosen the police force because he thought he'd look good in a uniform. Then he'd spent the next forty years regretting his decision. He eyed Aubrey. 'Yes? And why would he be bothered talking to you?'

'Because I am the son of Sir Darius Fitzwilliam, the Prime Minister of Albion.'

The constable blinked, then looked Aubrey up and down. Aubrey could read his thoughts on his unshaven face and it came as no surprise when he finally decided that it would be safest to pass the Albionish troublemaker on to someone more senior. 'Follow me.'

It grated on Aubrey, having to use his father's name and position. As they made their way through the police, he promised himself that one day, Sir Darius would be known as the father of the famous Aubrey Fitzwilliam, rather than the other way around.

By the time they reached Inspector Paul another suspect was being questioned – a whey-faced young man with bulging eyes.

Aubrey greeted the Inspector in Gallian. 'Inspector. Are you busy?'

'Fitzwilliam. What are you doing here?' Inspector Paul gathered himself and bowed. 'Miss Hepworth.' He stared at, but didn't remark on, her outfit. As an afterthought, he nodded at George. 'Doyle.'

Aubrey saw dark circles under Inspector Paul's eyes. 'You've been working hard.'

Inspector Paul straightened his cap. He twirled his pencil, then flipped it upside down and tapped the blunt end on his notebook. 'The entire police force is busy,' he allowed. 'Much is happening. Now, what do you want?'

Aubrey eased into his work. He enjoyed this sort of sparring, seeing it as something like fencing – advancing, deflecting, feinting, thrusting where appropriate. 'I thought you might like some news, something that your colleagues might not know yet.'

Aubrey had guessed that Inspector Paul's ambitions were being thwarted by the eternal politicking of the Inspectorate, where commissions and advancement depended more on connections and patronage than on ability. He saw Paul's frustrations and sympathised. The Inspector was a competent man. If Aubrey could help him while helping himself, then he was happy to do it. 'There is an airfield to the north-west of the city,' he said.

Inspector Paul's eyebrows rose. 'Take him to the station,' he said to his men in Gallian. 'Find out what he knows. Do not harm him, but brook no nonsense.'

The two burly officers bustled their charge toward a police wagon.

Now they were in a bubble of solitude. About forty yards away to the east, medics had set up a station and were attending to those injured by the charge of the aurochs. Most of the police had clustered there, smoking and laughing at those who'd been hurt, as if it was their bravery that had saved them from being trampled rather than luck.

To the west, the barricades were manned again. Constables were talking to a group of elderly gentlemen who were staring with dismay at the Academy of Sciences. Behind them, two or three men with notebooks were scribbling furiously. Journalists, Aubrey thought, and this was confirmed when a motorcar screeched up. A photographer leapt out and, in an instant, had a camera mounted on a tripod. For a split second, a flash of brilliant white light turned the darkened street into daylight. Aubrey tensed, but the photographer was evidently of the mundane variety, for the police – after blinking – went about their duties unharmed.

'So,' Inspector Paul said, in a low voice. He'd pocketed his notebook, but he still held his pencil. 'What dirigible field are you talking about? The Lutetian airfield is south of the city, as everyone knows.'

'Well, you'd hardly keep experimental airship designs at the public airfield, would you? Prying eyes and all that.'

Inspector Paul studied Aubrey for a moment. 'Come with me.' When Caroline and George followed, he held up a hand. 'Please. I wish to speak to him alone.'

Caroline shook her head. 'I don't think so. We were at this airfield together. We all saw the sabotage.'

'Sabotage?' Inspector Paul raised an eyebrow. 'Very well.'

He took them to the middle of the crossroads, well away from the scene of activity that had once been the Academy of Sciences, the queen of Fortitude Street. In the other direction, Charity Avenue led to the heart of the city.

'Now no-one will overhear us,' Inspector Paul said.

'Wait,' Aubrey said. Despite his tiredness, he called his muffling spell to mind. He held up a hand and began to roll out the elements, but was dismayed when he stumbled over a simple nexus-defining term.

'Old man?' George said.

'Sorry,' Aubrey said. 'Seems I'm rather more tired than I thought.' He took a deep breath. 'I'm sure we won't be heard here anyway.'

Caroline frowned. 'Are you all right?'

'Of course. It's been a long day, that's all.'

Inspector Paul shrugged. 'Tell me about this mythical airfield.'

'One of your experimental airships has been lost.'

'Why should I believe you?'

'I saved Captain Saltin's life in Albion. He will vouch for me.'

Inspector Paul sucked air in through his teeth. 'Saltin? Is he back on duty already?'

Aubrey liked his opponents to be on the back foot, so he followed this with another short-pitched delivery. 'And how does a police inspector know about personnel in the Dirigible Corps?'

Inspector Paul's face hardened. 'I have a cousin who works at the St Martin airfield.' He clamped his lips together. 'It is no matter. You say that there has been destruction?'

'Much destruction. I'm sure the police will be asked to investigate. And be on the lookout for a bear.'

'A bear? There are no bears in Gallia.'

Aubrey shrugged. 'Your men were just run down by an ox from the dawn of time and you think a bear is impossible?'

The Inspector made a note in his journal. 'I will investigate this.'

Aubrey knew the Inspector would be in a hurry to get back to headquarters to make the most of his information.' Now that I've told you something, I hope you will be able to help me in return.'

'What is it?'

Aubrey pointed at the Academy of Sciences. 'What have you found out about this?'

The Inspector scowled. 'You see the green jackets? They are from our Bureau of Exceptional Investigations.' Two men wearing the anonymous dark-green uniforms were standing near one of the pillars at the front of the building. They were rubbing their hands against the pediment.

Aubrey could see the ambivalence that Inspector Paul felt for his magician colleagues. 'What have they told you?'

'Very little. But they say that the building was affected by a very powerful magical artefact.' Inspector Paul looked keenly at Aubrey. 'They would give me no details, but I think we know what they were talking about.'

'They say it was here?'

'They were not sure. It may simply be that, having been dislocated from its resting place, it is affecting the city in erratic ways. I have reports of deranged men, running around breaking street lights. Another was arrested trying to cut down the bells in the church of St Catherine.'

Aubrey had a final thought. 'Have you any news about the Soul Stealer?'

Inspector Paul rolled his eyes. 'This photographer is not as important as other matters. He can wait.'

I hope you're right, Aubrey thought, but he had a nagging suspicion otherwise. He held out his hand. 'Thank you, Inspector. Good luck.'

They shook. 'I think we should stay in touch, no?'

'Yes.'

THEY DECIDED TO LEAVE THE LORRY WHERE IT WAS. THE police would be bound to notice it sooner or later and return it to the airfield. As George, Caroline and Aubrey walked through the quiet streets, he wondered about Saltin and hoped the airman had not been hurt again. He liked Saltin, with his passion for the airships.

At one point, they were followed by a pack of mongrel dogs that appeared from nowhere. Growling, they advanced until driven off by a few stones, well thrown by George.

They reached the Isle of the Crown and Caroline's apartment building. She stood at the door and studied them, seriously. 'I suppose I'm committed, now.'

'I beg your pardon?' Aubrey said.

'I may as well see this thing through, now that my studies have been taken from me.'

Aubrey started guiltily, but managed to hide it with a yawn. 'Sorry. Of course, we'd be glad to have you along, wouldn't we, George?'

George played a straight bat to this. 'Of course.'

Caroline nodded. 'You're not the only one who's tantalised by a mystery, Aubrey. Besides, I'm finding this sort of thing has some appeal. I may have to talk seriously to the Special Services.'

'What about your science studies?'

'I'm not saying I've made up my mind yet. About anything.'

With that, she was through the door and closed it behind her.

George shook his head. 'You know, old man, if I were you –'

'Don't finish that sentence, George. Please.'

'My advice on romance has been sought by thousands, you know.'

'Thousands?'

'Metaphorically speaking.'

'I see. That's where "thousands" is a metaphor for "none", is it?'

'What a hurtful thing to say,' George responded, grinning. 'As a result, I'll leave you to your own devices.'

'An entirely satisfactory state of affairs.'

Eleven

THE TWO HOURS AUBREY HAD IN BED WERE NOT restful at all. Sleep fled from him, and instead, he was plucked and pummelled by worry.

His fatigue and weakness were steadily growing, but he'd had enough experience to feel that he could force himself on despite them. The other signs were more disquieting. His appetite was still a stranger to him, and he was sure he'd lost weight. His senses of taste and smell had diminished. He had lost more hair. The rough and flaking skin had spread up his arms, across his chest and shoulders.

Most worrying of all was the impaired healing. In the early morning light, he examined the slash on the base of his thumb. Having removed the tightly bound handkerchief, he noted, gloomily, that although the bleeding had slowed, it hadn't stopped.

That's not what I need at all, he thought. He found a clean handkerchief and rebound the wound.

He crossed the room on unsteady legs and stood at the washstand. He shuddered at the pale, drawn face he saw in the mirror. His eyes were dull, and was that a patch of flaking skin on his neck?

He dashed water on his face. He dressed, wearing a starched high-collared shirt despite the discomfort. He tucked Bernard's journal into his jacket pocket in the hope that he'd find some time to decipher the writings.

For a moment, Aubrey rested his head on the brass bed post. Deep down, he'd always been confident he'd find a remedy for his condition. It was just another puzzle to solve, after all. Some hard work, some flashes of insight, and he'd triumph, snatching victory when all seemed lost.

Now, however, time was proving to be a more difficult opponent than he'd thought. It was racing away, leaving him more debilitated as the hours ticked by.

With a chill that began in his heart and worked its way outwards, Aubrey realised that perhaps things weren't going to be all right this time. He could do nothing other than press on with the plans he'd formulated during the sleepless hours, but the consequences of failure were looming as more than something to be put in a box and marked 'possible outcome'.

If he couldn't stop his deterioration, he would die the true death.

Sobered, and more than a little shaken, he went downstairs, thinking hard.

Madame Calvert was finishing her breakfast when he arrived downstairs. She handed him a letter. 'It came last night. From the embassy. And a Miss Hepworth rang. She said she couldn't go with you today as her mother needed her for more modelling. She apologised and asked if she could join you tomorrow morning. A polite young lady.'

Aubrey nodded. In a way, he was glad. His plans for the day included something he'd rather Caroline not see.

Aubrey read the letter and, dimly, noted he couldn't smell the cup of coffee Madame Calvert had placed in front of him.

The letter was from his mother and it gently but firmly prompted him for some progress in his seeking of Dr Romellier. He read it guiltily, but then considered the status of his commitments.

He decided that George had made some dent in the genealogy quest for Bertie, and while he didn't have his grandmother's letters in his possession, he had a promising avenue of investigation to follow, with Monsieur Caron having promised to bring the letters to his shop. That made two tasks where he could firmly say some headway had been made.

George walked through the door, yawning. 'Morning, old man. Busy day ahead?'

'Not if we had an army of servants at our disposal. But seeing as there's only us, it promises to be full and interesting.'

'Splendid. Sounds as if I should make sure I'm well fed before setting out.'

'Of course.' Aubrey sighed and laced his hands on his chest. 'I'm going to do something about my condition.'

'Excellent. Not before time, I'd say.' George gestured at the empty plate in front of Aubrey. 'You're not eating.'

'No. I can't.'

'Ah. That bad, is it?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'Then we must get you fixed up, straightaway.'

Aubrey watched his friend stow away an astonishing amount of food. He admired the gusto with which George attacked the pastries, rolls, cheese and fruit. He was full of life, practically vibrating with it, and Aubrey felt envious.

When they finally left the apartment building, Aubrey was taken aback to find Gabriel propped against a lamp post at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for them. A poster promising unspecified disaster had been pasted on a letter box and Gabriel was eyeing it moodily. He was accompanied by four substantial colleagues, none of whom looked as if he would be much use in a battle of wits. Freestyle brawling, however, would be a different matter.

'Fitzwilliam,' Gabriel said in Gallian. 'You say that you're interested in supporting our movement, do you?' He spoke as if their conversation of the previous evening hadn't been interrupted by a bear attack and an exploding dirigible.

Aubrey had a vision of his plans for the day torn into confetti and thrown into the air. 'Albion has an interest in a stable continent,' he replied, carefully.

'Excellent.' Gabriel slapped his thigh as if Aubrey had just pledged his fortune to the cause. 'To test your commitment, however, we have a task for you. To prove yourself.'

Aubrey narrowed his eyes. What sort of proof of loyalty would Gabriel want? Something illegal would be useful, putting a new recruit apart from normal society, binding them closely to the organisation as the only place that would have them.

'If you doubt our word . . .' Aubrey said.

'Actions speak louder than words. Come.'

George caught Aubrey's eye. 'Old man?'

'We're going with them.'

'D'you think that's wise? Don't you have something urgent to do?'

With Gabriel looking suspiciously at him, Aubrey shook his head. 'This is more important. I'm sure that other matter can wait.'

George didn't look convinced. 'I hope you know what you're doing.'

Aubrey shrugged. So do I, he thought.

AUBREY AND GEORGE WERE HERDED ALONG ALLEYS AND lanes and through the crowded yards of carters, merchants and providores. Gabriel went confidently and was often greeted by name. Aubrey noted this as an indication of how far the Marchmaine independence movement had penetrated Gallian society, at least at the level of those who fetched, carried and carted.

They came across another pack of dogs, worrying at the remains of what appeared to be a horse. The dogs growled but didn't give chase.

They entered a short street. On the corner was a seedy bar, the Loyal Badger. Half a dozen shops were lined up along the ground floor of the four-storey buildings. Gabriel led the way to the last door on the left, just before the street ran into another at right angles.

Gabriel put a hand on the door. He grinned at Aubrey, showing a bad tooth. 'Your task awaits you.'

Gabriel's silent friends were behind Aubrey and George. Aubrey sized up the moment. He was sure he and George could escape, but it would ruin their chances with the Sons of Victor. No, they were committed to going through with whatever ordeal Gabriel had planned for them.

His heart pounded as he crossed the threshold and stared down a short flight of stairs into the room below. The only light came from the door behind him and through cracks in the boards covering the windows, so the room was a pit of shadows. He took a deep breath and descended into the unknown.

Carefully, arms extended, Aubrey kicked aside loose paper that was strewn on the floor. The place was damp and he was sure it would smell of mildew – if he could smell. In the middle of the room, he strained to make out a large shape, as tall as George, unmoving and ominous. He tensed at movement, but it was only Gabriel lighting a match, then an oil lamp, and Aubrey sighed with relief when the darkness rolled back.

'A printing press,' George said without enthusiasm.

'This is your challenge,' Gabriel said, rubbing his hands together.

Aubrey had skinned many knuckles on printing presses during his father's helter-skelter election campaign. He ran his hand along the guide rail. It came away dusty.

Aubrey sighed. 'It's a Woolley Imperial. Made in Albion.'

'You are familiar with this machine?' Gabriel said. 'Good. We need handbills. Many handbills. Lutetia must be carpeted with our handbills.'

Aubrey took off his hat and jacket. He looked for a place to hang them but gave up and dropped them in a corner. Something stirred and ran away under the paper, squeaking. Aubrey reminded himself to check his clothes when he picked them up again.

'This is our task?' George asked. 'To make handbills? That's all?'

'Hah!' Gabriel smiled nastily. 'You think that working the Beast is easy? You're more stupid than you look.'

Aubrey watched George. His friend nodded, slowly, and Aubrey knew he was making special note of Gabriel's face. For later.

Two hours later, Aubrey understood how the printing press had earned its nickname. His shirt was soaked with sweat and he had ink stains up to his elbows. George had a nasty gash on the back of his hand where a retaining bar had, without warning, snapped back into place while he was adjusting a platen head. They had not managed to print a single handbill.

Aubrey was struggling. His thumb was still bleeding, despite his twice rebinding the wound with fresh handkerchiefs. His knees, elbows and shoulder joints were spots of hot pain, as if someone had filled them with powdered glass.

Gabriel left after half an hour's gloating, taking one of his comrades with him and leaving the other to supervise. This consisted of sitting on a bale of paper, picking teeth, grunting and refusing any requests for help.

The door opened. Aubrey straightened from tightening a roller nut, ready to explain their meagre output.

'Fitzwilliam! My friend! What are you doing here?'

'Hello, Saltin.' Aubrey was glad of the distraction. He wiped his face with a weary hand. 'I was wondering the same thing.'

The airman was reassuringly unharmed. 'I am here to help my friends in their struggle for a free Marchmaine.'

'Isn't that a little . . . well . . . dangerous? For someone in your position?'

'Nonsense. When does a citizen of Gallia fear to speak his mind? The revolution was fought for such freedoms!'

George scratched his chin. 'But you don't want to be part of Gallia any more.'

Saltin was puzzled for a moment, then brightened. 'But the enlightened state of Marchmaine will naturally share the same values as revolutionary Gallia. It is the only truly modern way.'

Aubrey looked at his supervisor, who hadn't moved. 'I think it's time for a break, wouldn't you say?' He repeated it in Gallian and earned a grunt in reply. This time, he chose to interpret it as a positive grunt rather than a negative one. He sat on one of the boxes of useless spare parts that George had hauled from one of the back rooms. George sprawled on another, but Saltin remained standing.

'What about last night?' Aubrey said to Saltin.

The airman's face fell. 'The AT 204. It was almost totally destroyed. Months of work, gone.'

'AT 204? I thought the 200 was your most advanced airship.'

Saltin grinned. 'The 200 is a wonderful craft, but the 204 is going to be even better.' His face fell. 'Was going to be even better.'

'Who do you suspect?'

Saltin spread his hands. 'I have no shortage of suspects, but no evidence to speak of.'

'It wasn't a magical attack. I can assure you of that.'

'Ah. That is good to know. When I left the airfield, the Bureau had been there for some hours. They said the same thing, but they were puzzled by what they called magical traces on the other side of the hangar. When I told them about the bear, they were most excited.'

They would be. 'What about your airship development program?'

'It has been damaged, severely. We have a dozen craft that are airworthy, with another three under repair. These are all serviceable, but they lack the refinements we were working on for the AT 204.'

Aubrey mentally translated the word 'refinement' to mean 'armament'. He had no doubt that the new generation of Gallian airship was being planned with the impending war in mind. Which, of course, made the Holmlanders the obvious suspects.

'I'd love to help you,' Aubrey said, 'but . . .' He gestured at the printing press. It looked smug and Aubrey glared at it.

'Ah!' Saltin exclaimed. 'The Beast! That is why I have come!'

'You know this thing?' George asked.

'We are old foes.' The airman took off his cap and jacket. He folded them on a bale of paper and rolled up his sleeves. 'Let us face the enemy together, as our treaty demands, Gallia and Albion as allies!'

Saltin pressed their supervisor into service. He sulked while he cranked the machine, but his shoulders were well suited to the task. He tolerated no nonsense from the printing press, either. A snarl and kick from him did wonders, where Aubrey's careful adjustments had failed.

It took another hour, but eventually they stood back, exhausted, with a working printing press.

Gabriel came back alone, with paper-wrapped lunch, in time to see handbills emerging from the maw of the Beast. They were clear, well trimmed and presentable. Gabriel gave the lunch parcels to Saltin and slapped Aubrey on the back. 'You are one of us, now. Free Marchmaine!'

'Free Marchmaine,' Aubrey and George echoed.

Gabriel's other comrade slipped in, slamming the door behind him and cursing.

'Dumont!' Gabriel said. 'What is it?'

He spat on the floor. 'A soulless one. In the street.'

Aubrey wiped his hands together. His knuckles hurt. 'Are the police on their way?'

It was Gabriel's turn to curse. 'We don't want the police poking around. Shut down the press until they're gone.'

'But we've just got started,' Saltin protested.

'You can start again when they've gone.'

Aubrey frowned. Saltin had said that the Marchmaine movement wasn't illegal. What had Gabriel to hide from the police?

Aubrey pushed a bale of paper close to the brick wall, then made himself comfortable. Comfort, he'd discovered, was a relative thing. At this time and in this place, it was a damp brick wall to lean against and a bundle of coarse paper to sit on. Blissful.

Gabriel, Saltin and the two taciturn offsiders went into one of the back rooms. George arranged four bales of paper into a couch and stretched out on them with his hands behind his head.

Aubrey straightened, startled. The tang of magic had drifted into the room, like salt breeze from the ocean. A low rumble shook the walls, a deep growling sound. George came to his feet and the four others emerged from the back room. Aubrey went to the window. He peered through a gap in the boards but could see nothing in the street.

'What was that?' Gabriel demanded

'I thought it was a convoy of lorries,' George said.

By craning his neck, Aubrey could see four or five police officers at the end of the street. They were on foot, and moving away up the slight hill.

'It looks quiet out there.' He moved away from the window and dusted his hands together.

'The floor shook,' Saltin said. 'Like an earthquake.'

'An earthquake in Lutetia?' Gabriel snorted. 'Rubbish.'

If it wasn't an earthquake, Aubrey thought, then what was it?

Voices and the noise of a motor drew him back to the window. 'More police,' he said, after peering through the crack.

'Probably reinforcements to help with the soulless ones,' Gabriel. 'Fools, they are.'

Aubrey remembered Inspector Paul's words. 'The police have scaled down their work on the soulless ones. I don't think –'

He was interrupted by thumping on the door.

'It's open,' George shouted, but the door crashed aside. A pair of husky constables lurched in, followed by a grizzled police captain with a patch over one eye. He stood at the top of the stairs, taking in the scene, while a squad of junior officers milled behind him.

He and Gabriel locked eyes. Gabriel snarled, the police captain smiled. 'Arrest them all,' the captain ordered.

Aubrey didn't want to tax himself more than he needed. Unfortunately, he had little choice.

He seized a sheaf of handbills and flung them toward the police. He snapped out a spell he'd perfected for card games, an application of the Law of Patterns. He hoped his quick estimation of the size of handbills was accurate enough, then he added a short, but difficult spell that used the Law of Origins. He was relying on the fact that paper had once been wood and with the right spell it could regain an aspect of that material. In this case, with the emphasis on the correct element, he was looking for the strength of wood.

In flight, the papers scattered and whirled, but then – seized by the power of the first spell – assumed an orderly grid, four feet or so across and twice that high. It dropped and blocked the bottom of the stairs, then changed colour from off-white to a dull brown, while expanding until it was a yard thick.

The first of the police constables descending the stairs ran right into the wooden wall and staggered back. Those behind ran into them and soon the staircase was a tangled mass of constabulary, curses and oaths.

'This way!' Gabriel barked while the police captain tried to sort out the chaos.

AUBREY STRUGGLED TO KEEP UP WITH GABRIEL AS HE LED them over the brick fence and down a fetid lane. The effort of casting the spells had sapped him and without George's helping hand he would have been in danger of falling behind and being lost.

Barrels of what looked like offcuts from a tannery were leaking into the drain that ran along the middle of the lane and – judging from the expression on George's face – Aubrey was glad that his sense of smell had diminished.

How long can I keep this up? he thought as they squeezed through a gap in a wooden fence. On the other side was an abandoned coachbuilder's yard, taken over by waist-high grass and thistles. How close to the edge am I?

Gabriel pushed through a sheet-metal door in a building that should have been condemned years ago. It was dark and damp inside, but Gabriel didn't hesitate. He guided them through the empty space as confidently as a judge, directly to a set of stairs. The stairs took them to a first floor that was as crowded as the ground floor was empty. Crates and boxes stretched from wall to wall, a solid mass, but again Gabriel didn't hesitate. He leapt onto a small box, then stepped up onto a large wooden cabinet, then onto a massive crate that could have held an omnibus. From here, Gabriel forged along an uneven way that took them to a window, soaped over and opaque.

The window screeched open and a short drop brought them to the roof of the building next door. After a quick crossing, down the fire escape and then through a yard full of horses, wagons and broken bottles, Gabriel called a stop behind an immense, rusty furnace, abandoned behind a foundry that was a tumult of pounding metal. On the other side of the foundry was a hole in the ground that smoked and reeked.

While a curious dog watched, Aubrey leaned against a vent door and tried to catch his breath. 'I thought you said that the Marchmaine movement was legal?' he said to Saltin.

The airman was woebegone. 'It is.'

Gabriel seemed preoccupied, but shrugged, frowning. 'It was just a matter of time. All governments become oppressive when threatened.'

Aubrey frowned. The words lacked conviction. Something else seemed to be on Gabriel's mind.

'But what about liberty? What about freedom for all?' Saltin said. 'The ideals of the revolution, what happened to them?'

'Pragmatism overrules ideals,' Gabriel said absently. 'It is time for us to go underground.' He sized up Aubrey. 'I did not realise you had magic. It will be useful to our struggle.'

'I have a little,' Aubrey lied. 'It's not very reliable.'

'It worked,' Gabriel said. 'Go now. Wait for our call.'

Aubrey translated for George, who frowned. 'Won't the police be waiting for us?'

'It was dark,' Gabriel said in Albionish. 'We were not recognised, I'm sure. Go about your normal business. They won't suspect Albionites, not even the grandson of the Steel Duke.'

Gabriel spoke with more certainty than Aubrey felt, but he nodded. This could be the chance he needed to get to the university.

Aubrey and George walked through the Maltarre district with its garment manufacturers and Aubrey wondered at Gabriel's farewell. He was used to being noted as the son of the Albion Prime Minister, but noone had connected him with his grandfather for years.

He was snapped out of his ponderings by a short, sharp earth tremor, then another. He glanced at George, who shrugged and pointed at a series of poorly printed posters on the wall of a telephone exchange. They seemed to be calling for action, but it was hard to determine of what sort and against whom, so bad was the text.

They trudged on. Aubrey's hands and feet felt as if they enormous weights attached to them, and he had to shake his head, often, to keep his eyes open. Blood seeped through his bandaged hand, and the unhealed wound throbbed.

Magic use was accelerating his decline. It drained him, much faster than mere physical effort did. Not that there was much alternative, he thought.

With gloomy fascination, Aubrey probed his teeth with his tongue and found that several at the back were loose. His gums were tender, as well.

'Where to, old man?' George asked.

'The university. Now.'

Twelve

THEY SKIRTED THE UNIVERSITY, KEEPING TO THE Boulevard of Wisdom and its busy cafés, before entering the campus via the medieval gate that led to the Faculty of Magic.

The doors to the tower were locked. George pounded on them and they were eventually greeted by the bemused face of Maurice, the porter.

'Maurice,' Aubrey said after he'd introduced George, 'has anyone come for Monsieur Bernard's things?'

Maurice ushered them inside and closed the door behind them. 'No, sir. I've packed them up, but the boxes are waiting in his workshop.' He wrung his hands. 'Dreadful times, sir. Dreadful times.'

'Yes,' Aubrey said, while George sauntered around the space, inspecting the staircase. 'Terrible.' Then he paused. 'What sort of dreadful times, Maurice?'

The porter patted the nearest wall. 'It's this building, sir. It's moving.'

'Moving?'

'It leans, it does – questing, like a hound sniffing the breeze.'

Maurice's simile was unexpectedly vivid, and Aubrey looked upward toward the turret. He could see how a building like this must have absorbed some magic, after having been exposed to centuries of it. With magic embedded in its brickwork, strange things could happen. 'How can you tell?'

'It tilts, straining in one direction for a while, then another. Tiny, it is, but I notice.' Maurice scratched his head. 'What it's after, though, that's the question.'

'It would have to be something of great magical power.' The theft of the Heart of Gold had been noticed by the Magisterium magicians in Albion. Aubrey wondered if it mightn't be sensed by a questing tower. 'Do you mind if I examine Monsieur Bernard's workshop? I'm interested in his work.'

Maurice shrugged, his face downcast. 'I'm glad someone is. A good man was Monsieur Bernard.'

Maurice had been thorough in his cleaning up. The benches of Bernard's workshop were empty, the floor scrubbed, the bookshelves cleared. It could have been a vacant studio waiting for a tenant.

George strolled to the window. 'Good view of the Library wall from here. Fine-looking bricks.'

'I'm sure Monsieur Bernard appreciated them.' Aubrey went to the entry vestibule and examined the tea chests and boxes that Maurice had stacked there. 'Lend a hand, would you, George?'

Together, they wrestled a number of boxes into the workshop. While George opened them with a pry bar he begged from Maurice, Aubrey took Bernard's notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped through the pages, looking for something relevant. Anything describing the time Bernard had experimented with death magic . . . Not weather magic, not the Law of Transformations, not post-Babylonian syllabic utterances . . . He paused, as something odd caught his eye. There.

Opposite a page of notes on limiting diagrams, Bernard had written a page in a peculiar black ink. It had a double line border around it and the number 7 in the bottom left-hand corner.

It was a shopping list – eggs, milk, bread and wine – and so out of place that Aubrey's curiosity ran around in circles, with bells on. A shopping list had no place in the middle of a magician's notebook. It had to be a code.

He ran his finger over the words and felt the texture of magic.

A speck of light danced over the page, and he looked up. The glass in the light fitting glinted back at him. He stared at its brass base, where it joined the ceiling. He moved to one side, then climbed on top of the workbench to get a better view, despite his aching knees.

'What are you doing?' George asked.

'The light fitting is on a ratchet.'

George peered upward. 'I'll take your word for it. But why would anyone do that?'

'To turn it.' Aubrey frowned. 'Can you see a rod? Something long enough to reach? It'll have a fitting on the end to slot into the base.'

George crossed to the window. 'Like this?'

George held up a long pole with a metal hook on the end, obviously meant to open the topmost windows of the workshop, but quite easily having another use. Aubrey took the pole and stood directly underneath the light fitting. 'Let's assume that the door is twelve o'clock.'

'By all means.' George put his hands in the pockets of his jacket. 'I assume you'll clarify that cryptic statement when you're ready.'

'I'm glad you used the word "cryptic".' Aubrey grimaced. He needed to fit the hook into the hole at the base of the light fitting. The pole wobbled, the hook slid, but finally he fitted it home. 'Because I suspect we're dealing with steganography here.'

'I'm sure we are. Go on.'

'Codes and ciphers are close cousins, ways to encrypt messages in an effort to make sure no-one else reads them. Unless you know the encryption key.' Aubrey's arms were aching from holding them up for so long. He gritted his teeth, flexed his forearms and the light fitting shifted. A click at a time, it ratcheted until he'd moved the slot to the seven o'clock position. 'Here.' He gave George the pole and he climbed down from the bench. Even that small physical exertion had him panting. 'Steganography,' George prompted.

Aubrey looked up. If he placed the notebook in the middle of the workbench it should be right underneath that slightly grey-coloured mirror. He arranged it carefully, open at the page with the shopping list. 'Can you turn on the light, please, George?'

'In the middle of the day?' George protested, but he was already on the way to the switch by the door. 'There.'

And there, Aubrey thought. The mysterious list on the page vanished. In its place were lines of minute, but perfectly readable, writing.

'Steganography is the science of hidden writing,' Aubrey said. 'If an enemy doesn't know that a message is there, it can slip past undetected. In ancient times it was said that a king shaved the head of a slave and tattooed a message on it. When the hair grew back he sent the slave across the border, where the recipient of the message shaved the slave's head again and read the message.'

'Not much fun being a slave.' George examined the journal. 'Bernard used steganography to hide his notes?'

'His notes on death magic.'

George grunted. 'Death magic? You're not going to mess around with that again, are you?'

Aubrey sighed. 'Anything else is simply fiddling at the edges.'

George closed Bernard's journal. He scowled. 'No.'

'No?'

'You can't, old man. Not after what happened last time.' He looked distressed. 'It's wrong, Aubrey. Death magic is wrong.'

'I don't have much choice,' he said in a small voice, moved by his friend's concern. 'I know, I know,' George said. He sighed. 'I simply thought that someone should tell you that this is a very bad idea. You need to be reminded, every now and then, that you're not infallible.' George gave Aubrey a sharp glance. 'Especially since you're going to go ahead, regardless.'

Aubrey started to object, but George held up a hand. 'I want you to get well again, old man. If this is the only way to do it, let's meet it head on.'

'Tally-ho,' Aubrey murmured.

George shook his head and gave Bernard's journal back to Aubrey. 'What does it say?'

'There's a lot here. I'll need time to read it.'

It took nearly an hour and Aubrey's head was spinning when he finished. Bernard had done more than skirt the edges of death magic. His experiments had probed some of the darkest areas of the deadly art. His notes were concise and well ordered, recording the effects of spells in accurate, clear terms, but a sense of horror lay underneath every word he wrote.

Aubrey felt sorry for the man. Working alone, forgotten, doing his best to keep alive the traditions of his faculty, it must have been a hard life. Based on his journal, Aubrey thought that Bernard could have been a feted savant if he lived in Albion. Universities would have clamoured for his services. Other magicians would have been eager to work with him. Yet here, in Lutetia, he had died a solitary death, unknown and unheralded.

Aubrey hoped that he could honour Bernard by using his work to good effect. It was a practical, useful homage.

He straightened and massaged the back of his neck. Near the window, George had stretched out on the bare floor, his new straw boater on his chest, his hands behind his head, sleeping the sleep of the untroubled. With some regret, he nudged his friend awake with his toe.

George shook himself and yawned. 'Dashed rude of you, old man. I was having a splendid dream. I was with this very charming –'

Aubrey gave a half-hearted smile. 'Enough. Keep your dreams to yourself.'

'Happy to.' George stood and brushed himself off. 'Are you ready?'

'Accoutrements, George. I need your help to find some spell paraphernalia.'

'Is that the sort of stuff you sneer at and call claptrap?'

'I don't sneer, do I?'

'Not often. Occasionally.'

Aubrey made a mental note to avoid sneering; he'd never liked it. He took a deep breath. 'Bernard was keen on using candles, braziers and the like. My feeling is that they're just scene setting and don't really contribute to a spell's effects, but Bernard felt more comfortable using them. Perhaps they helped focus his attention.'

'Sounds like they can't hurt, anyway.'

'Consider it a touch of theatre.'

It was a measure of Aubrey's nervousness that he was willing to contemplate using such ornaments. If he'd felt more confident, he would have jettisoned such stuff as superstitious nonsense.

George peered into the box they'd already opened. 'What exactly are we looking for?'

'We need four green candles. Twisted ones, preferably, but even Bernard admitted that was a nicety.'

George grunted. 'You're in luck. This box is full of 'em. Give me a minute and I see if I can find four twisted green candles.'

Aubrey took the pry bar to the vestibule and levered up the top of another box. When he examined the contents, his admiration for Bernard grew. The Lutetian magician may have been a recluse and an eccentric, but he had been a careful craftsman. Every casket, jar and bottle in the crate was clearly marked in Bernard's distinctive, spiky handwriting. They showed that his intellect roamed not just across magical fields, but also into natural history and science. Aubrey sorted through fossils, geological specimens and magical curios from the past. He was surprised to see a slim case marked 'unicorn horn', but then saw Bernard's wry note: 'actually carved ivory'. He smiled to see that Bernard had an interest in collecting such fakes. He found two Philosopher's Stones, a Phoenix feather, three magic wands, two sacks with 'magic beans' written on them (one empty) and a stringless harp.

At the bottom of the crate he found what he was looking for: a tripod and brass brazier plus a roll of shimmering, golden cloth.

Aubrey couldn't imagine how the penniless magician had come by such a thing. He ran his hand over the fabric, feeling its cool, supple resilience, and he knew it was true cloth of gold, made entirely of fibres of the precious metal. It was worth a fortune, and the fact that Bernard had not sold it suggested something about its importance.

George loomed in the doorway. 'Found what you need?'

'Here.' Aubrey thrust the brazier on him. 'You have the candles?'

'Four: green and twisted as a corkscrew.'

'Excellent.' Aubrey hefted the cloth of gold and tried to quell his rising nervousness. 'Now, to work.'

Aubrey hunted for the restraining diagram he'd used to trap the mindless Bernard, but couldn't find it thanks to Maurice's careful scrubbing. This did mean, however, that he had a clear field to work with.

On hands and knees, he used white chalk to inscribe the simple ring that Bernard's notes had suggested. Aubrey was careful with the dimensions, so that the result was more oval than round. When he finished, he lay on his back. 'I'm not poking out, am I?'

'No, but you don't have much room. The line's about an inch away from the top of your head.' George craned his neck. 'The same gap's between your feet and the line – about an inch.'

'I don't need much room. I won't be moving around.'

The narrow confines were an intentional refinement on Aubrey's part. Bernard's notes hadn't specified dimensions of the restraining diagram, but Aubrey thought it might help to limit the extent of the spell, and thus intensify it.

Aubrey stood, careful not to smudge the chalk line. 'Now. Candles. Two on my left side, two on my right. Outside the ring.' He heard how clipped his voice was and tried to relax.

'Shall do. The brazier?'

'About half a yard away from my feet. Outside the ring.'

'Of course.' George tapped his chin. 'You'll be wanting something burning in the brazier?'

Aubrey groaned. 'Bernard's notes said he always had charcoal smouldering while he experimented with death magic. He said it helped soothe his soul.'

'Probably helped to warm his toes.' George shook his head. 'I didn't see any charcoal lying around. I'll ask Maurice if he has some.'

While waiting for George, Aubrey inspected the diagram, flexing his hands in an effort to keep them from trembling.

Aubrey was afraid. This wasn't the stealthy, tiptoe pickpocket fear, the fear that crept up from behind and stroked with ice-cold fingers; it was the fear that overwhelmed in a frontal assault – crushing, teeth-chattering, bowel-loosening fear.

He bit his lip, hard, and the sharp pain – added to the many discomforts that he endured – was like a dash of cold water in his face. He threw off the fear, took a deep breath and examined the cloth of gold.

George returned with a small bucket full of charcoal and a box of safety matches. 'What are you going to do with that cloth?' he asked.

'According to Bernard's notes, it can strengthen the bond between body and soul. Perfect when one is messing about with death magic.' Aubrey unwound a length and let it fall. 'The Law of Similarity. And the Law of Affinity.'

'You're going to drape yourself in it?'

'More than that. I need to be wrapped up.'

Aubrey stood at one end of the restraining diagram while George grappled with the heavy bolt of cloth, unwrapping it as he walked. George alternated between chuckling and apologising for his chuckling. 'You're starting to look like some sort of pagan idol, old man,' he said when Aubrey was wrapped up to his waist.

'Good, but I don't intend to spend a millennium or two buried beneath the sands.' Aubrey wobbled a little as his friend tugged the cloth tighter.

George continued his careful circuit, unrolling the cloth of gold as he went. Aubrey's nervousness grew. His arms were pinned at his side by the layers of cloth and he had an moment of panic. He was helpless and he hated it.

His recent uncharacteristic errors while spell-casting preyed on him. He couldn't afford to fumble while working with death magic, but neither could he take the time to rest and recover.

He didn't like to think what would happen if it wasn't successful.

Aubrey rehearsed the spell Bernard had constructed. It used an Etruscan language base, with an open-ended variable for duration which was a tongue-twisting series of glottal syllables. The spell was essentially a barrier spell, placing a shield around the magician's body and soul, keeping them united in the face of the call of the true death. Once in place, it would allow a magician to conduct experiments without his soul being torn away and vanishing into that country of no return.

Aubrey was sure this was the sort of thing Dr Tremaine had in mind when the Sorcerer Royal had taunted him over his condition. It was an essential tool for anyone dealing with death magic. With hindsight, Aubrey knew he'd been an idiot not to have realised it before his disastrous foray into such a dangerous area of magic.

The only drawback Aubrey could see was that Bernard's spell was a singular spell – it was of the rare category of enchantment that a magician could only cast once. The elements of the spell immediately lost their power after being spoken, and couldn't be used again.

It was a minor shortcoming, Aubrey decided. If he did this correctly, he wouldn't have to use it again. No time for mistakes, he thought.

George's brow furrowed as he worked. Aubrey wriggled his shoulders and felt the weight of the cloth. He resisted the temptation to tell George to hurry. 'Tighter. It must be firm.'

'Very well. And what about your head?'

'That too. Wrap me up entirely.'

The cloth of gold was Bernard's truly revolutionary idea. It had been understood by magicians for centuries that the soul and the body were linked by a golden thread, the same thread that – when the right time came – took the soul through the portal to the true death. Bernard used the Law of Similarity and the Law of Affinity to derive a spell that would turn the cloth of gold into a veritable suit of armour that would hold body and soul together.

At least, it would in an ordinary person, Aubrey thought. With his body and soul jolted apart, he wasn't sure how effective this magical shield would be. It was, however, the most promising development he'd discovered since his accident.

The cloth of gold passed in front of his eyes. He found he could still see, although the world had become golden. It was harder to breathe, too, but not impossible.

'Are you all right?' George asked. He tugged the cloth and Aubrey nearly overbalanced.

'Perfectly. Especially if you stop trying to tip me over.'

'Sorry. Mind if I ask a question, old man?

'Go ahead.'

'I'm holding one end of this roll of cloth. You're all wrapped up with the other end buried underneath your layers. That means we're linked. Is it meant to be like that?'

'You have to cut the cloth. The loose end will wind itself into the rest.'

'Cut the cloth. Good.' George was silent for a moment. 'Hold still, old man. I have to unwind some more.'

Aubrey braced himself. He couldn't see George, but he could feel his friend backing away, keeping the tension on the bolt of cloth while he paid it out.

George's voice came from a distance to Aubrey's right. 'Still there?'

'I'm rooted to the spot.' Aubrey's voice sounded muffled even to himself. It was growing warm inside the golden swaddling. He swallowed, and it felt as if a football was lodged in his throat.

'Good, good. I'm in the vestibule. Just looking for . . . Ah! Excellent!'

'What have you found?'

'A large pair of shears. I'm sure they'll do the trick. Should have got them earlier, I suppose.'

'You're doing well, George. I appreciate it.'

Aubrey endured a series of tugs and releases as George reversed his journey, rolling up the cloth as he went. Aubrey realised he was sweating, and not entirely because of the warmth.

'Ready, old man.' George said. 'Can I cut away?'

Aubrey could make out his friend, frowning and brandishing a large pair of shears. 'Go ahead. Carefully.'

The shears hissed through the cloth of gold. Aubrey felt a slight tension, then it passed. 'What's happened?' he asked.

George's voice was respectful. 'Just as you said. The end of the cloth curled up all by itself. I can't even see where it joined.'

'Good. Now, lay the remainder aside.'

'Done.'

Aubrey gathered himself. Again, he ran over the spell in his mind and then, standing there, aching and afraid, he began to have second thoughts.

The hesitation was like opening a door in a gale. His mind was flung wide; his thoughts scattered and ran in all directions. Fragments came to him – his father, Stonelea school, his dreams of a seat in Parliament, his disappointment over never having owned a dog. Meaningless memories, opinions and impressions assailed him, battered at his attention before he found the strength to marshal himself and achieve a moment of clarity. In the brief stillness, he used his magical senses to examine his condition.

There was no doubt about it. He was dying.

His fatigue had gone beyond the physical. It was a profound, inner exhaustion, a result of striving for so long to keep body and soul together. All his tinkering, all his makeshift patching and shoring up was collapsing. His soul was separating from his body.

His magical senses allowed him to see it edging out of his physical form, being pulled away by the golden cord attached to its left wrist. It was a pale, ghostly replica of his physical form, with features that were indistinct and obscured.

He knew that another golden cord was secured to his soul's right wrist, and thence to the core of his body – and this was the cord that had separated.

He had very little time left.

Do not hurry, he told himself as he forced himself to be calm. He concentrated on the intricacies of the task ahead. The elegant spell array that Monsieur Bernard had established demanded his full attention. Little by little, the sense of dread ebbed and he was absorbed in the task at hand.

'George, stand behind me, please.'

'Done.'

'Now, I need to be lying down, so I'm going to fall backward. I want you to catch me and help me to the floor.'

'I can do that.'

'Make sure I'm not poking out of the diagram. And don't scuff the chalk either. I don't want to have to draw it again. And don't forget how heavy I'll be, wrapped in all this gold.'

'Easy, Aubrey. Calm. You'll fluff your spell if you keep this up.'

'You're right.' He took a breath and held it for a moment before releasing it. 'Now,' he said and managed to tip backward. His heart was in his mouth for an instant, then George's firm hands caught him. Gently, he was settled onto the floor.

'I'm not touching the diagram?' he asked.

'You're snug and tidy. Ready to go.'

'Good. Stand back, George.'

'Good luck.'

Aubrey took another deep breath and began Monsieur Bernard's spell.

As soon as the first syllables left his lips, he began to have a sense of double vision. The room was still yellow tinged from the veil of cloth of gold, but everything – walls, benches, windows – had an overlay, a subtle outline that shifted in and out on the edge of perception. Then, as he worked through the Etruscan syllables that itemised elements of intensity, dimension and resilience, the portal that led to the true death began to appear.

It took all Aubrey's willpower not to stutter or pause in the rolling cadences of the spell. The portal that led from this world to the other was hanging in the air at the end of the room, a rectangle twice the height of a man, featureless except for the churning greyness it opened onto.

Plunging right through it was the golden cord, the mystical bond that united body and soul. Aubrey felt it tugging on his soul, a summons that was hard to resist.

Aubrey averted his eyes. He spoke the element of the spell that delineated the frequency of the spell (once!) then the awkward guttural items of affinity (the cloth of gold and the golden cord) before coming to the last element.

The final element in most spells was the equivalent of a signature. It was a flourish that identified the originator of the spell, and any magicians who subsequently added to or revised the spell. With this spell, the final syllable belonged to Monsieur Bernard alone. Aubrey pronounced it with care, and wished that he'd known the lonely magician better, before adding a tiny syllable of his own, signifying his revisions to the spell.

Immediately, Aubrey was jerked rigid, his limbs and spine stiffening. All his muscles strained and he arched until only his head and his heels touched the floor. Then, on the verge of panic, he felt pressure on every inch of his body. In a moment of terror, he thought he was going to be crushed, then the pressure disappeared and was replaced by an exquisite stinging as if a thousand razors danced on his skin. He was poised there in a blinding symphony of pain, his body throbbing.

Then it was gone.

He heard George give a startled cry, then his friend's face swam into view, sharp and clear. Impressions beat at him – chalk dust on one of George's eyebrows, the way the light caught a crack in the ceiling above him, the faint, oily odour of the cloth of gold, a train whistle in the distance – all demanding his attention at once. An almost holy exhilaration seized him and he had a brief instant's concern that the top of his head would fly off with joy. He trembled, not with exhaustion this time, but revelling in the strong, vibrant interconnectedness of muscle, tendon, nerve and bone. He breathed and almost swooned at the simple rhythm of life.

He squinted, then opened his eyes fully. His vision was normal again. The yellow tinge had gone.

Aubrey shrugged and grinned wholeheartedly. He sat up in one smooth, unhurried motion. His head frothed and bubbled and he had to steady himself with a hand on the floor. For a moment he was lost in its fine, woody texture. It smelled of polish and dust, a heady, intoxicating aroma.

He could smell again.

'George.'

'Aubrey. Old man. It worked?'

'It would seem so.' He felt like shouting, dancing a jig, doing handstands and cartwheels. He was alive!

George rubbed a hand over his face, then looked away for a moment. 'Good, good.' He coughed and cleared his throat. 'The cloth of gold's gone.'

Aubrey plucked at his chest. 'It's not gone, George. If the spell worked properly, it's just become part of me.'

Thirteen

AUBREY SAT ON A WORKBENCH, KICKING HIS FEET, AND took a few moments to compose himself. George fussed about, clearly not convinced by his friend's protestations that he was feeling well.

Aubrey alternated between grinning and beaming. His aches had vanished and he felt full of vigour. He unwrapped the makeshift bandage from his hand to see that the cut had stopped bleeding and was crusting over nicely. His tongue told him that his gum tenderness was gone and his teeth were solid in their sockets once again.

Humming, he used his magical sense to probe his condition and nodded with satisfaction. His body and soul were swaddled in subtle, shimmering gold; he looked as if he were actually glowing. He chuckled and wondered if this was the aura that magicians in olden times sometimes reported. It seemed to be working, for he could find no trace of the golden cord which had been his constant companion, tugging his soul toward the true death. He felt strong and whole again.

Aubrey was both relieved and exultant. He'd challenged the unknown, the dark edges of magical theory, and he'd survived. Not only survived, but triumphed.

He clapped his hands together and barely restrained himself from repeating the action, just to experience the sharp sensation again. 'Success, George.'

'You're better?'

'It seems so. For now. As far as I can tell.'

'I'm glad to hear you so certain. D'you think it will last?'

'I don't know.' Aubrey jumped off the bench. He raised his hands over his head, stretching. His spine popped and he enjoyed the feeling. 'So that's all the more reason to get moving and find this Heart of Gold.'

He went from the workshop to the spiral staircase. 'Now, I have an idea,' he said, then seized the balustrade and vaulted up the stairs two at a time.

George followed with a groan. 'You must be feeling better. You're having ideas again.'

'I'm fizzing with them, George,' Aubrey said as he clattered up the stairs. 'And this is a top class idea, one of the best I've had for a while.'

Aubrey reached the turret at the top of the tower. He had a moment of vertigo when he stepped onto the iron walkway, tottering until he braced himself against the windows that ran right around the perimeter of the room.

The tower was leaning slightly, tilting so that Aubrey felt as if he were looking down on the buildings below. He could see the university grounds, Conscientiousness Street and the nearby bakeries where a grocer's delivery cart was overtaking a street sweeper who was battling with a backed-up drain. On the other side of that was a peculiar gap in a row of houses, as if a rotten tooth had been pulled. Aubrey was puzzled and tried to see more, but all he could make out was a dark hole in the ground.

The windows collected light and funnelled it into the depths of the tower through the central shaft of the staircase. The turret was also the observatory and watchtower so often found in these ancient magicians' strongholds. Overhead were the massive hinges that would allow the roof to open for unfettered access to the night sky.

George joined him, gulping as his feet skated on the iron walkway. He propped himself against a window frame. 'I say, old man, this isn't about to fall down, is it?'

'It's lasted hundreds of years, George. We'd be a mite unlucky if it decided to collapse right now.'

Aubrey hummed to himself, adjusting his position as the ancient tower creaked and groaned. He inched along, carefully, keeping on the balls of his feet.

George rubbed his chin. He glanced at Aubrey. 'Is this place moving?'

'Yes. Hold on . . .'

Aubrey's magical awareness had warned him, so when the tower lurched to one side he had a good grip on one of the wooden window frames. Secure, he flung out a hand and caught George's arm to prevent his friend from toppling into the stairwell.

'Thanks, old man.' George straightened his jacket. 'Is this what Maurice was talking about?'

Aubrey nodded. 'This place is questing. It's attuned to magic, and as a result it's nosing in the direction of the most powerful magic there is.'

'The Heart of Gold.' George's brow wrinkled. 'Why wasn't this place pointing at the Chapel of the Heart, then?'

'I'd say that the disturbance is responsible. Once the Heart of Gold was wrenched from the place it had been for centuries, the tower responded to it. The Heart of Gold is on the move, it seems, and the tower is tending toward it.' Aubrey pointed through the window in the direction the tower was leaning. 'We can use it, George, like a bloodhound.'

George stared out over the roofs, steeples and towers of Lutetia. 'If we trace a line that way, the Heart of Gold is out there?'

Aubrey was slow in answering as he worked through the implications. 'The Heart of Gold will be out there in that direction, but how far in that direction? If we follow that line out to the horizon, we're bound to find it, but that's hardly practical.'

George's face fell. 'That's a lot of Lutetia out there.'

'Unless we can repeat this from another location.' Aubrey stared out at the metropolis. 'Trace a line of yearning from here, then do it again from another place. The two lines will intersect and there will be the Heart of Gallia.'

'Dashed clever, Aubrey, but how are we going to get a second bearing? We can't exactly shift the tower a few miles to the right.'

'First of all, we need a map of the city. While you find one, I'll take care of the rest.'

'Find a map?'

'Use your initiative, George.'

George was blank for a moment, then held up a finger. 'I'll be back before you know it.'

After George went down the stairs, Aubrey shifted his attention to the tower.

He knelt and placed a hand on the brick wall underneath the nearest window. He closed his eyes and felt the magic that had soaked into it. It was a stew of countless spell fragments combining to give the tower its uncanny sensitivity.

Aubrey knew that, in the right circumstances, the Law of Constituent Parts could be extremely useful. Similar to the Law of Origins, the Law of Constituent Parts maintained that if something large was broken into small pieces, each piece would retain some of the properties of the whole it came from. All that was needed was the correct spell to enhance the particular, required property, and Aubrey was eager to do some spell-casting, now he felt strong again.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs made him turn. 'Maurice.'

The long-faced porter flapped a hand. 'What can I do for you, young sir?'

'I need a cold chisel and a mallet.'

Maurice gaped.

'I want to remove a brick. It's important,' he added, when Maurice's expression went from bewildered to aghast.

'It might be important, but you'll not ruin the tower.'

'I need a brick. The fate of Lutetia may depend on it.' And Gallia, and Albion, and Holmland, Aubrey thought, but he felt the drama of the statement would be lost if he extended too far.

'You can't take a brick from there. It's load bearing. You take one out and the window frame will drop. Then the window will collapse. And then –'

'Yes, yes, I can work out the rest.' Aubrey stood and drummed his thigh with a fist. 'I still need a brick.'

Maurice bobbed his head. It was a disconcerting movement, like a balloon caught in a chimney. 'A brick. From the tower.'

'Soon would be best.'

'I've got a spare door stopper in my room.'

'Won't do, I'm afraid.'

'A brick.' Maurice peered around as if he expected one to drop into his hands.

'This is quite urgent, Maurice.'

The old caretaker tapped his nose. 'Professor Castillon's rooms. He tried to put in a furnace and started knocking a hole in the wall he shared with Dr Cisco.'

'We can find a loose brick there?'

Maurice didn't answer. His expression was dreamy. 'Dr Cisco flew into a terrible rage, he did. Stormed into Professor Castillon's rooms and then it was a battle royal. Enough magic thrown around to light up the city.'

Aubrey was interested, despite himself. 'When was this?'

'Ooh, a hundred years ago, more or less. My pa told me about it.' Maurice shook himself. 'Those rooms were sealed up, not used after that. I'm sure I can get a brick for you though.'

'Will it be safe?'

Maurice chuckled. 'This place'd never hurt me. Not Maurice. Be back soon.'

Aubrey was left alone. He gazed over the city and wondered where the Heart of Gold was. If the thieves had been able to elude the roadblocks, it could be out of the country.

He rubbed his hands together. They didn't hurt in the slightest. His body and soul were as snugly united as they had ever been since the disastrous experiment. It was such a relief that Aubrey hardly knew how to feel about it. He'd been living with the constant threat of dissolution for so long, teetering on the brink of the true death, that having the hazard removed was oddly unsettling.

On a practical level, however, it meant that the energy and attention he'd had to devote to keeping himself from slipping toward the true death could now be turned to more useful ends. Like becoming a hero.

Aubrey snorted. He had to curb the Fitzwilliam Hero Impulse, no matter how much it appealed to him. He accepted that, in some ways, it was an exaggerated version of the Good Samaritan Complex, combined with a deep-seated (and hereditary) Decency Syndrome, but it did make matters difficult, at times.

He had a number of challenges placed in front of him. All of them were worthwhile and honourable. Some were relatively trivial, others were daunting. If he could fulfil them he'd be helping people he respected and doing his part to prevent a war.

And proving yourself? a voice whispered.

Aubrey thrust his fists in the pockets of his jacket. He stalked around the turret. He didn't like to think that his actions were prompted by something as trivial as measuring himself against his father, but he was honest enough to admit that an element of that was always lurking.

Sir Darius had high expectations of people. An idealist, his opponents called him, but it was a trait that had inspired his troops and it continued to inspire loyalty. People tended to rise to challenges that Sir Darius set, often achieving things they never thought they could.

Aubrey had observed this all his life. He'd seen his father's aides, colleagues and confederates become substantial figures in their own right, thanks to Sir Darius's guidance.

With his own son, however, Sir Darius refused to make his expectations explicit. He said he wanted Aubrey to set goals for himself.

Aubrey's answer was to look at what his father was doing and to try to do much the same thing, equally well. Of course, being competitive by nature, that actually meant doing these things better.

Maurice appeared, tromping up the stairs and interrupting Aubrey's thoughts. 'Here's your brick.'

He heaved it at Aubrey, who caught it in both hands. He felt a deep, distant tingle. 'Any problems?'

'None to speak of. Dusty place, those rooms. I'll give them a good clean-out when I get a chance.'

Aubrey didn't have time to thank the porter. George rushed up the stairs brandishing a large roll of paper. 'One map of Lutetia, as ordered.'

'Where did you get it so quickly?' Aubrey unrolled a detailed chart of the city.

'We're in a university. I guessed it would have a cartographic department. Full of mapmakers, cartographic departments are.'

'George, your Gallian is abysmal. How could you find a cartographic department, explain what you want and then negotiate for it?'

George waved a hand. 'I pride myself on my resourcefulness. Present me with a difficulty and I find a way around it.'

'You had help, didn't you?'

'Not at all. I crossed the road to the nearest café. I slapped a hundred-Gallia note on the bar and said it was for the first person who could get me a detailed map of Lutetia. In five minutes I had three to choose from. Money is an international language, I've found.'

'You're a marvel, George.'

'I do try, old man.'

George supplied a pencil. With it, and with Maurice pointing out the landmarks, Aubrey was able to trace a line on the map in the direction the tower was leaning.

Maurice saw them to the door. 'The Heart of Gold's gone missing, has it?'

'It's supposed to be a secret,' Aubrey said. 'But we want to find it.'

'And return it to where it belongs?'

'That's our aim,' George said.

'Do that.' The porter rubbed his hands together and inspected the sky. The sun was a dull, brassy colour. The few clouds were ragged and fretful, despite the lack of wind. 'The city isn't the same without it.'

Maurice left, clanging down the stairs.

'What did he mean by that?' George asked.

As if in answer, the air over the city rippled, and the tower shook. Aubrey felt a wave of magic pass. 'I'd say that the sooner it's returned, the better.'

AUBREY AND GEORGE TOOK A LATE LUNCH AT AN EATERY NEAR the Ironmonger's Bridge. Aubrey devoured his omelette with relish, enjoying the return of both his appetite and his sense of taste. He enjoyed the clean taste of basil, and the bite of the black pepper, and realised he'd missed such homely pleasures.

His attention was drawn by the water in the river. He stared, his fork in mid-air. 'Do you notice anything about the Sequane, George?'

George looked up from a Lutetian newspaper he'd picked up through force of habit. 'Sorry, old man, just getting up-to-date with the goings on in the Assembly.'

'Don't lie, George, it doesn't become you. Look out there and tell me what you see.'

George peered through the window. 'Water. Boats. Ducks. Nothing extraordinary.'

'But look how slowly the boats are travelling, even with the current.'

George folded the paper and stared. 'The wake looks strange, too.'

'And see how distressed the ducks are? They're having trouble climbing out of the water.'

'Bizarre.'

'I can feel the magic.' Aubrey leaned closer to the window.' George, it looks as if the water is getting thicker.'

They paid for their lunch and went to the river bank. A man in a striped shirt was sitting in a rowing boat a few yards away, cursing as he worked the oars. Each pull seemed a huge effort.

The wake from the vessels was washing sluggishly against the stone retaining walls, as if the waves were made of treacle.

'Out of the ordinary, that,' George observed.

The low level of magic emanating from the river prickled on Aubrey's skin. He stared at the water and rubbed his hands together, as if this could ease his foreboding.' The river's been affected by the loss of the Heart of Gold.'

George picked up a pebble and tossed it at the river. It struck the surface and stayed there for a second or two before slowly sinking. 'Then we'd better restore it. Can't have a solid river in a city like this. Dashed unattractive.'

'It's more serious than that. Tons of goods come into the city via the river. If no food comes from the countryside, Lutetia will become very hungry, very soon.'

George was startled and eyed the river with serious distaste. 'What are we dawdling for, old man? Let's go.'

Aubrey had wrapped his brick in newspaper to avoid stares and he cradled it in both hands as they made their way across the city. At times, he felt a faint stirring as the brick tried to orient itself toward the Heart of Gold, but the movements were too faint to be trusted. Aubrey knew he would have to amplify them before he could be certain of its direction-finding ability.

He led them to Autumn Park, on the other side of the Plaza of Democracy. George smiled, took off his new boater and scratched his head. 'Good thinking, old man. Fine view from there.'

'The Exposition Tower has the best view in Lutetia.'

The Exposition Tower was by far the tallest structure in the city. In its short lifetime it had already changed from an object of controversy to a symbol of the city itself. A complex meshwork of thousands of interlocking girders held together by millions of rivets, it had been called a monstrosity, a ironmonger's nightmare, a modern miracle and a dream in steel. Of late, it had been used as a marvellous antenna for the new radio machines. At night, the most advanced electric lights made the Exposition Tower shine, a beacon in the darkness that could be seen for miles.

'Good thing they decided not to tear it down after the Exposition,' George said.

'How could they? It is Lutetia, now.'

Aubrey and George joined the crowds of people who were after a view of the city. The lift took them in a stately glide up to the first observation level. Even though it was the lowest of the three public areas, it was still high above the surrounding rooftops. Aubrey could see over parks, mausoleums, churches and the banks of the strangely gelid river, where people were gathering, attracted by the phenomenon.

A thin, uninviting haze hung over the city. The sun was warm, and a breeze had sprung up. It, too, was warm, but it carried a stink, a smell of rot that made Aubrey wrinkle his nose.

'Not a wonderful advertisement for the city.' George shook his head as if he could dislodge the smell from his nostrils. 'I wonder where it's coming from?'

'All around, I'd say.'

'Sorry, old man?'

'I think Lutetia is decaying without the Heart of Gold in its rightful place. The earth tremors, the thickening of the river, the smell . . . And look at the people around you. They look as if they've suffered a death in the family. The loss is infecting everyone.'

A few sightseers were out, gazing over the city, but their faces were morose and discomfited. Aubrey would have expected chatter and joking as they tried to spy landmarks, their own homes or places of work, but instead they looked as if they were merely going through the motions.

'I suppose it could have something to do with the brouhaha in the Assembly, too,' George said.

Aubrey shrugged. 'Possibly, although the Giraud government has been unpopular for some time. The Marchmaine issue hasn't helped, of course.'

'What about your brick, old man? Any chance of giving it a go?'

Aubrey had been waiting for some privacy. He felt it wouldn't be a very good idea to brandish a brick about when one was so high off the ground. While he was sure he'd been labelled a troublemaker by the police department, he didn't want to confirm it.

A couple with a small child drifted away toward the lift. Aubrey and George were left alone on the northern side of the observation deck. He unwrapped the brick and held it in both hands. 'The brick remembers what it was like to be part of the tower,' he explained to George. 'That's the basis of the Law of Constituent Parts. But its properties are diminished, being so much smaller than the original. I need to enhance its yearning quality.'

It was a straightforward spell, one that Aubrey had learned years ago. It wasn't often useful, however, because of the fractionating that occurred when the whole was divided into parts. What gave him hope, however, was that the brick had absorbed magic over its hundreds of years as part of a building that housed magicians. That magic should add its own power to the spell and he hoped he'd be able to amplify the yearning quality now inherent in the brick.

He remembered the spell easily because, when he learned it the first time, he was amused by the rhyming syllables, even though he didn't – back then – know what they meant. The Sumerian language was prone to rhymes, another thing he hadn't known at the time, and instead he'd simply thought of the spell as a nursery song.

He chanted it softly while holding the brick in front of him. The spell was short and when he finished, the brick quivered.

George eyed it suspiciously. Aubrey clamped his hands around it. 'Unroll the map and we'll see what we have.'

He loosened his grip. The brick shifted and tugged, pointing like a compass needle. 'What direction is that?'

'Steady on, old man, I haven't got the map up the right way.' George frowned, lifted his head and gazed over the city. Then he turned the map until he was happy. 'There.'

'It's pointing past the Winter Bridge and the Church of St Sebastian.'

George grunted and marked these two points on the map. 'So, if I extend this line from the Exposition Tower, it should cross the line we drew from the university.'

He fell silent.

'Well?' Aubrey urged.

'The Liberty Gardens,' George said slowly. 'That's where the lines intersect.'

Aubrey studied the map. The Liberty Gardens was a large park to the north of the river, a few miles from their apartment. 'That's where the Heart of Gold is.'

He could already feel the yearning fading in the brick. He wrapped it up again and tucked it under his arm. No-one appeared to have noticed their antics.

Aubrey and George ambled home through the fading afternoon. Soon the sun was setting over the city. Shadows began to extend over the streetscapes like long, black fingers.

They crossed Rationality Street and went around the theatre district. Aubrey stopped dead. On the corner of Tolerance Street, in front of a statue of the spirit of the revolution, two young men were having their photograph taken.

He couldn't help himself. He started toward the photographer, who was bent over, peering through the lens of the bulky camera.

George grasped his arm. 'I don't think so, old man.'

The photographer straightened and laughed. The two young men laughed as well, then the photographer folded his tripod and three of them set off together.

'It wasn't the Soul Stealer,' Aubrey said.

'No.'

'But he's out there somewhere.' Despite his new internal armour, Aubrey wanted to find this fiend. Not just for his own purposes, but because he couldn't stand the thought of soulless bodies, so many of them, lost with no hope of redemption.

Ahead, a motorcar screeched around the corner, barely avoiding a flower barrow. The flower seller screamed curses, but the motorcar didn't stop. It hurtled through the light traffic, swerving around an omnibus. With chilling deliberation, it crossed to the wrong side of the road and ran up onto the pavement right in front of the photographer and his two subjects.

Aubrey started running, drawn by an overwhelming sense of disaster.

The motorcar's doors burst open and three well-dressed men leapt out. Two of them pushed the two young men aside, and struck one in the stomach when he bridled at his treatment. The other man grabbed the photographer and his equipment and shoved them into the back seat of the car. Instantly, the three men piled into their vehicle. It screeched off, roaring down the street, horn blaring, demanding passage and leaving behind a trail of frightened horses, cursing cabbies and dented fenders.

Aubrey reached the two young men. One was on the pavement, gasping for breath. The other was helping as best he could.

'What was that about?' Aubrey asked in Gallian. A small crowd began to gather. No-one offered to help. They stood watching, sullenly.

One of the young men, moustached and pale, shook his head. 'I do not know. They took Charles.'

'Charles?'

'Our friend. He is a photographer. He asked us to test a new lens he'd purchased. We'd taken a dozen or more photographs and we were going for a drink.'

The breathless young man groaned. The other shook his head. 'I think he may have broken a rib. I must get him to the doctor.'

George helped the injured young man to his feet. The two of them limped off. Aubrey chewed his lip. 'It looks as if we're not the only ones looking for photographers.'

'Who else?'

'I recognised one of the kidnappers. He was one of the men who stole the Heart of Gold.'

Fourteen

MADAME CALVERT WAS WAITING FOR AUBREY AND George when they arrived back at the apartment building after snatching a late bite to eat. 'We have had a run on the banks today,' she announced.

Aubrey considered this and decided that it was something he couldn't be held responsible for. 'That's bad news. Are you inconvenienced?'

'The Prime Minister acted and closed them before too much damage was done. I'm sure it will right itself, but the government was nearly defeated in a motion of no confidence this afternoon.'

Again, Aubrey felt that he was free of blame here. 'Strange times, Madame Calvert, strange times.'

'There was a riot at the flower market, the river has stopped running and the earth itself is shaking.'

The disruption to the city was spreading. Aubrey had grave fears as to what would happen if the Heart of Gold were not returned. 'Why are you telling me this, Madame Calvert?'

She pursed her lips. 'I'm unhappy because Lutetia isn't at its best to host your father.'

Aubrey raised an eyebrow. 'Have you been reading my correspondence?'

'Of course not. I received a letter from him myself.'

George almost dropped his hat. 'Sir Darius sent a letter to you?'

Madame Calvert softened at this. 'We knew each other many years ago, when we were much younger, before he found his wife. We have kept in touch.'

Ah, so that's why Father suggested we should stay here, Aubrey thought. 'Father's letter said that this is an official visit, to show support and goodwill toward the Gallian government. Prime Minister Giraud is especially eager for him to come.'

'Should show the Holmlanders that the Albion–Gallia alliance is still strong,' George said.

'The Holmlanders and everyone else who is watching,' Aubrey said, then he glanced at George. 'That was a remarkably astute observation. You always swore that politics was a bore.'

George grinned. 'I'm undertaking a program to become a Renaissance man. Politics first, then painting, then I'll turn my hand to falconry. Or astronomy.'

'Should keep you busy.'

'A person needs a hobby.'

Madame Calvert tapped her foot on the tiled floor. 'Your parents will be staying at the embassy. Will you be joining them? Do I have to advertise your rooms?'

'No, no, we're comfortable here, aren't we, George?'

'Extremely.'

Madame Calvert frowned, sceptical. Aubrey decided that this was as positive as she would get this evening, so he excused himself. He and George hurried up the stairs to their rooms.

Fatigue descended on Aubrey as George unlocked the door to their suite. He leaned against the wall, but was pleased to find that the exhaustion seemed natural, the result of his exertions during the day. His soul seemed well content, snugly enclosed by the magical barrier of Monsieur Bernard's spell.

He yawned. 'George, I have to go to bed.'

George held the door open. 'I understand, old man.'

'Don't worry. I'm well, in no danger. I'm simply tired, that's all.'

'The spell's working?'

'I think so. I had planned to go out tonight, to see if we could do a spot of work on Bertie's family.' He yawned again. 'But I don't think I'm capable of it. Not now.'

'Sleep, that's the ticket. Get a good night's rest and we'll track down this Heart of Gold tomorrow.'

Aubrey lay on his bed and felt good, healthy sleep taking him up. He resisted it, revelling in the sensation, and thought about his father's imminent arrival.

Aubrey had a number of items to report. The mysterious attack at the airfield, von Stralick's revelation about rogue Holmland agents at large . . .

I'll put it in writing, he thought, just before he fell asleep. When I get a moment.

AUBREY OPENED HIS EYES AND NOTICED, STRAIGHTAWAY, that they weren't gritty from lack of sleep. He grinned and threw back the bedclothes.

Dancing with eagerness to go downstairs and tackle the day, he dressed, then splashed water on a face that didn't look wan in the mirror; when he brushed his hair, it shone with a lustre that he hadn't seen for days – and it all stayed on his head instead of being snagged in his brush.

Smiling, he almost floated down the stairs. He burst into the breakfast room, where he nearly tripped over at the aroma of coffee and fresh pastries. His mouth watered.

'Morning, Aubrey,' George said from a table by the streetside window. He flapped a newspaper. 'Give me a hand with this, will you, old man?'

Aubrey translated for George, while devouring a breakfast that tasted like heaven. The Saturday newspapers were full of reports on the riots, the earth tremors, the crisis with the banks, the strange condition of the river and the abduction of several photographers. None of them mentioned the Heart of Gold.

The bank crisis, apparently, had come from nowhere. In response, the Minister for Finance had conducted a long conference where he attributed it to rumours about dock-worker action, the failure of the grape crop, a rise in taxation and a rebellion in one of the tropical Gallian colonies, all of which he declared untrue.

The river phenomenon also took up much space, with ferrymen, bargees and those who dwelt near the river up in arms. Blame was apportioned to many, with the government the first choice, but manufacturers, farmers and minority groups – religious, cultural and foreign – also had the finger pointed at them.

Aubrey lingered over a small piece on page five. 'Listen to this, George. "A giant elk was seen on Truth Avenue yesterday. After charging at and scattering a pack of dogs, it escaped into the Talroy Gardens and has not been seen since. The creature's antlers were reported as gargantuan. It is said that the creature had been captured in the country and false antler extensions attached as a prank."'

'A prank? Not a terribly funny one. Especially for the dogs.'

'Do you know the nearest place you could get an elk? In this day and age?'

'Ooh, you might be able to find one in Senpathia. Lots of mountains there.'

'Can you imagine someone finding an elk there and transporting it hundreds of miles only to let it go in the middle of Lutetia as a prank?'

Aubrey rubbed his chin. Weren't the Talroy Gardens near the Liberty Gardens? Was this bizarre appearance another effect of the Heart of Gold?

'Doesn't make much sense to me,' George said. 'But Lutetians are such wild, romantic fools.'

'Too many strange things are happening in one place, George.'

George sipped his coffee. 'Sounds as if the whole city is breaking down.'

'And if Lutetia breaks down, I know which neighbouring country will be ready to move in.' Aubrey sighed and folded the newspaper. 'The Heart of Gold must be restored.'

'It'd be pleasing if we could manage this before your parents get here.'

'I'd thought of that.' Aubrey sipped at this third cup of coffee and closed his eyes in appreciation of its richness. It's the little things that remind us we're human, he thought, and how enjoyable it can be. 'Oh, did I mention that the embassy is going to hold a ball this weekend, in honour of the alliance?'

'A ball? Well. Are we invited?'

'I'm expected to be there. And so are you.'

'Splendid.'

Aubrey dusted some crumbs from the front of his jacket. 'I thought I might ask Caroline.'

George nodded, with a completely straight face. 'I thought you might, too.'

'She may enjoy that sort of thing. Music, a chance to get dressed up.'

'You're just thinking of her. I know how unselfish you are.'

Aubrey grinned. 'You know me too well.' He stood. 'And who'll you partner? I'm sure Caroline's mother is free.'

George opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Madame Calvert appeared at their table. 'The embassy ball? I have a niece who would be delighted to accompany you.'

George spluttered. 'I . . .Well, I'm sure that . . .'

'Excellent. I'll make the arrangements.'

'WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY ANYTHING, OLD MAN?' GEORGE SAID as they mounted the stairs to their rooms.

'I thought you were handling the situation beautifully. I tend to be overawed when you adopt your smooth, suave persona like that.'

George jammed his hands into his pockets. 'I was thinking of asking that waitress from the café in the gardens. Or I'm sure one of the girls from that acting troupe would be interested. Fun-loving types, they seemed.'

'I'm sure Madame Calvert's niece will be very presentable.'

'Presentable,' George repeated. He coughed and held a hand to his forehead. 'I feel a cold coming on. I don't think I'll be well enough to go.'

'Don't worry, George, we have much to do before then.'

'I'll never make it. I'm fading fast.'

BEFORE THEY SET OUT FOR THE DAY, AUBREY PREPARED himself as best as he could. He stowed some of his useful items in his jacket: chalk, a pocket knife, some clay, three glass marbles, a brass door knob and – on a whim – a feather.

The brick from the Faculty of Magic lay on his washstand. Aubrey studied it, humming to himself as he did. Its properties could come in handy, but it was an awkward thing to be carrying around. If challenged, he imagined he could present a plausible excuse – 'I need to mend a wall and I wanted to get the right colour' – but in these suspicious times it could strain even his powers of persuasion.

Why take a whole brick when a piece will do? he thought. Just as the brick had stood in for the tower, if he could break it up, a fragment could stand for the whole. When they came near the Liberty Gardens he could use small pieces of brick – even brick dust – to determine the exact whereabouts of the Heart of Gold.

He paused and hefted the brick in both hands. How am I going to shatter a brick in an exclusive Lutetian apartment?

He scanned the room, hoping he'd simply overlooked a hammer and anvil tucked into the corner. Plenty of delicate, spindly furniture. Lots of subtly patterned wallpaper. Not much in the way of blacksmith's tools.

He shrugged. Why use muscles when gravity could do the work?

Balancing the brick under one arm, he knocked on George's door. He entered just as his friend called, 'Come in.'

George was standing in front of the cheval mirror with two brushes. 'How's my hair?' he asked.

'Perfect.' Aubrey went to the window. Below was a quiet alley. 'Excellent. Now, I want you to nip down there and tell me if anyone's coming.'

'Why?'

'I don't want to drop this brick on someone's head.'

'I see. And my job is to prevent such a thing?'

'One step ahead, you are. Good to see.'

The results were satisfactory. George came back with a palm full of rough brick gravel, as well as a collection of larger fragments. 'There you go, old man. No damage to people or property, although I think we succeeded in scaring a nasty-looking cat.'

Aubrey held his jacket pockets open and George poured in the pieces. 'Now,' Aubrey said, 'let's see if we can finally track down this Heart of Gold.'

THE MORNING WAS WARM, BUT FLAT AND DULL. THIN CLOUD, the colour of wallpaper paste, covered the entire sky. The foul odour that Aubrey had noticed while on the Exposition Tower was still present, a faint, underlying smell of rot that unsettled his stomach. It was having the same effect on the Lutetians, too, to judge from the sour faces they passed while walking along Generosity Street.

Aubrey, however, was in good spirits. He hummed as they marched toward the Hepworths' apartment. Even the growing numbers of doom-laden posters couldn't dampen his spirits.

He wanted to speak to Inspector Paul, when he could find time. Some judicious sharing of information might be timely. He had the feeling they could be useful to each other.

'Solved a problem?' George asked him as they crossed Fairness Street. The smell from a bakery was mouthwatering enough to drive off the sickly city stench, and a long line of customers attested that the products of the shop tasted as good as they smelled.

'A problem?'

'You're humming again. It seems to help you think, just like a cat's purr helps its digestion.'

Aubrey stopped dead and stared at his friend. 'Where did you get that piece of information from?'

'Renaissance man, remember? I aim to accumulate knowledge like an oyster accumulates . . . seaweed?'

'Be that as it may. A cat's purr helps its digestion? Where did that come from?'

'Can't recall. But it's an impressive morsel to drop into a conversation, don't you think? Especially with a pretty companion.'

'Ah, I see. This Renaissance man business is a way to impress females.'

'Why would you think any differently?'

THEY ARRIVED AT THE HEPWORTH RESIDENCE TO FIND Caroline on the front stairs, giving a ginger cat a saucer of milk.

Aubrey waved to her. 'Taking care of strays?'

Caroline smiled. 'He's hungry.' She bent and stroked the lucky cat. It lapped at the milk and began to purr.

George opened his mouth, but Aubrey cut him off. 'Not now, George.'

Caroline looked up, then stared at Aubrey. 'What on earth is that in your jacket?'

Alarmed, Aubrey looked down to see that that his pocket was moving. 'Oh. That's a brick. Or parts of a brick. Brick dust, too.'

'I hope magic is involved.'

'Oh yes.' Aubrey explained about the questing powers of the Faculty of Magic.

'Ingenious,' Caroline said when he'd finished.

Aubrey couldn't believe it as his face began to glow. He thought he had better control than that. He crouched and stroked the cat to hide his blush.

'Good Lord,' George said. 'I thought you hated cats.'

'They're useful, sometimes.'

THE AREA THAT LED TO INSPECTOR PAUL'S OFFICE WAS partly a waiting room, partly a clearing house. Police entered by one of five doors, consulted with the sergeant at the raised desk, then hurried out again, usually by a completely different door. The desk was in the middle of the room and loomed like a pulpit over the benches against the walls. The red-faced sergeant behind the desk was as bald as an egg. He'd apparently decided to make up for this deficiency by growing an immense black beard that draped over his chest like a wall hanging. 'Inspector Paul is conducting an investigation,' he told Aubrey after glaring at the ledger in front of him.

'Where?' Aubrey replied in Gallian.

The sergeant drew himself up. 'I cannot tell you that.'

'We have important information for him.'

'Such as?'

Aubrey mentally shuffled his list of important items, guessing which would be the most urgent to the police. 'About the Sons of Victor.'

It was enough. The sergeant squinted. 'The Bureau of Exceptional Investigations called him to the Middle Bridge.'

WHILE THEY CROSSED THE CITY, AUBREY TOOK THE CHANCE to tell Caroline about their encounter with the Sons of Victor and about the brick from the Faculty of Magic. Her questions were incisive and made Aubrey carefully consider the events.

They arrived at the Middle Bridge in time to see the operatives from the Bureau of Exceptional Investigations conduct a revelation spell.

Aubrey stood behind the barriers that the police had erected near the Middle Bridge and watched with a professional eye, closely following the technique of the Gallian magicians.

They worked as a team, creating a large circle – ten yards or more across – on the embankment, just below where the Middle Bridge gave out onto Charity Avenue. Some of the cobblestones had been dislodged in the flood and made stable footing difficult, but eventually one of the five green-uniformed operatives cast a handful of powder into the middle of the circle.

'What are they doing?' Caroline asked.

'It's a way of seeing what happened in a location. It's difficult. There are many temporal parameters to work with, and spatial drift is a problem.'

'Aubrey's done it before,' George put in. 'When someone was trying to shoot Prince Albert.'

Caroline glanced at Aubrey curiously. Aubrey did his best not to notice her regard, instead concentrating on the unfolding scene in front of them.

A bubble appeared, as high as a lamp post and ten yards or so across. Dim, blurry figures flitted inside it. The vision shifted and wobbled, however, with two of the operatives moving their arms in agitated fashion. Suddenly, sharp, rainbow-coloured streaks slashed across the surface of the bubble. They writhed, jagged and disturbing, twisting the surface of the bubble and distorting the figures inside. Despite the efforts of the operatives, the bubble tore itself apart and disappeared in shreds.

Aubrey caught sight of a familiar figure standing, hands behind his back, smiling at the Bureau magicians as they began to argue. 'Inspector! Inspector Paul!' he called.

Inspector Paul recognised Aubrey's voice. He strode to the barricades, waving away an anxious constable. 'Miss Hepworth. Fitzwilliam, Doyle,' he said in his accented Albionish. 'What do you think of our experts?'

Inspector Paul had difficulty keeping the satisfaction from his voice. 'They seemed competent enough,' Aubrey answered carefully. 'I thought they were going about it the right way.'

'You could have done better,' George muttered.

'They failed,' Inspector Paul said. 'The Bureau said they sent their best, yet they failed.' He rubbed his hands together, then seemed to realise what he was doing and clasped them behind his back again. 'They say they can't determine the origin of the anger spell.'

'Not enough residue?' Aubrey asked. 'Or was it of an unknown type?'

Inspector Paul was impressed. 'You know something of forensic magic?'

'A little.'

'It was, indeed, an unknown type of residue. They say they want to investigate it back at their headquarters.'

'I don't suppose there's a chance I could examine it?'

Inspector Paul snorted. 'I doubt it. The Bureau is very protective of what it sees as its jurisdiction. When it deigns to work with police, it is always as if it is doing us a great favour.'

Aubrey considered this for a moment. 'Have you made any progress on the sabotage at the dirigible works?'

Inspector Paul looked to either side. 'Come this way.'

He moved the wooden barrier to allow Aubrey, Caroline and George through. He took them to a place halfway between the barricades and the Bureau operatives, who were discussing matters in low voices with furtive, accusatory gestures.

'A special force is dealing with the matter at the dirigible works,' Inspector Paul told Aubrey and his friends. 'It has representatives from the military and the police force. Some very senior men are involved.'

'They think it's too important for the regular police?'

Inspector Paul shrugged. 'It is the way of things.' He regarded Aubrey. 'Can you tell me any more? Do you have sources?'

'I've learned nothing new about the dirigible sabotage.' Aubrey was aware that this may not be the whole truth, but he didn't want to reveal everything he'd learned. In times like these, information was currency – and he didn't want to spend it all at once. 'But I have another matter I wish to ask you about.'

Aubrey was aware that involving Inspector Paul was a risk. But the Inspector had shown his basic honesty. Besides, Aubrey needed an ally, a Gallian ally, if he was to make progress with his enquiries. Without Gallian support, he was an outsider no matter how well he spoke the language.

'I was with the Sons of Victor yesterday,' he said. 'There was a raid. A police raid.'

Inspector Paul frowned. 'I was not aware of this. On what grounds? The Marchmaine movement is not an illegal organisation. It may be inconvenient to the government, but every Gallian assumes that it is his duty to be inconvenient to the government.' He paused and held up a hand. 'Forgive me, Miss Hepworth. Or her duty.'

Caroline nodded, acknowledging Inspector Paul's apology.

Aubrey grimaced. 'The Marchmainers did seem surprised when the police arrived.'

'I would have heard about any raid,' Inspector Paul said. 'I should have been told. Who was in charge?'

'We didn't linger and exchange names. He was a captain, grey-haired. He had a patch over one eye.'

Inspector Paul shook his head. 'There is no-one of that description on the force.'

'Then someone has access to police uniforms and police vans. Or very good facsimiles thereof.'

Aubrey didn't know which alternative was worse. Either way, it meant that matters within the police force were very difficult. If it wasn't the police, then who was it? he thought. It would make sense if it was the same party responsible for the magical mayhem on the Middle Bridge. Someone with a grudge against the Marchmaine cause?

'I cannot accept this,' Inspector Paul said.

'It is true.'

Aubrey saw that, like most honest men, Inspector Paul had great difficulty in coming to terms with corruption. He worked his jaw and clenched his fists. 'I will make some enquiries.'

'Be discreet. If your force has been compromised, simply asking questions could be dangerous.'

Inspector Paul chewed on this. 'Factions have always been present within the force. We all know that. But I do not like to think that it has come to this.'

'Be careful.'

'Do not worry. I have resources of my own.'

'One more thing,' Aubrey said. 'The missing object. The valuable missing object.'

'Ah. No concrete progress there, but we're sure that it is still within the environs of the city. The blockade has been strengthened. Nothing can get out.'

'A suggestion: treat any reports of strange animals very seriously.'

Inspector Paul began to smile, but then studied Aubrey and nodded. 'If you say so. Now, I have much work to do.'

The Inspector tipped his cap to Caroline and then he marched toward the Bureau operatives.

Aubrey felt that he had either thrown a cat among the pigeons or set a tiger loose. He wasn't sure which.

'Well,' Caroline said. 'Did you learn much?'

'Enough to know that things are even murkier than I thought.' Aubrey set off. Caroline and George fell in beside him as they strolled along the river.

The beeches were in full greenery, tall and slender. The wrought-iron park benches were vacant, however, and the pigeons were surly because of the absence of their usual meal providers.

'Let's hope things get clearer before your parents arrive on Saturday,' George said.

Caroline glanced sharply at Aubrey. 'Your mother is coming to Lutetia? You didn't tell me that.'

Aubrey could have kicked George. 'It's an official visit, a hasty one at that.'

'I'd like to see her. She might be able to do something to get me back into the taxonomy course.'

Aubrey's stomach sank to his shoes and crawled around in his socks for a while. 'Yes, well, I'm sure she'd be pleased to do what she can.'

'And Dr Romellier. She'll be keen to hear from him. You haven't forgotten about him, have you?'

Aubrey winced. 'No. Not forgotten. More important things have come up.'

'A good leader always knows when to delegate, Aubrey. I have some avenues to pursue. Let me find Dr Romellier for you.'

But that's not what I'd planned, he thought. I want you with me.

Guilt jabbed at Aubrey. He felt guilty for not considering what Caroline wanted to do. Guilty for treating people as if they were automatons to be moved around as he wished.

No, he thought, it's more than guilt. It's shame.

He realised he'd been carried away, seduced by the grand adventure, absorbed with plans and strategies. And all the while, he'd overlooked that his schemes involved people. He wasn't unaware of the fact that people had their own desires, wants and dreams – sometimes he just forgot about it.

For a moment, in a desperate rear-guard action, he tried to convince himself that the ends justified the means, but the cliché was empty in his hands.

I've been a cad, he thought. An insensitive, big-headed cad.

He was about to blurt out everything to her when he stopped dead, the words frozen in his mouth.

I can't tell her, he thought. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, all by itself.

'Are you all right, Aubrey?' Caroline asked. 'You have the oddest expression on your face.'

If I tell her what I've done, he thought with dismay, she won't have anything to do with me. Faced with that outcome, he opted to put it off and hoped he could discover a way to organise things so all would be well.

The contradictory nature of this resolution didn't escape him – manipulating things so he'd be forgiven for manipulating things – but it was all he could think of. He'd mired himself in a mess of his own making.

'I'm fine,' he managed to say. He cleared his throat and pressed ahead, putting his sense of guilt aside for later contemplation. 'My mother would be pleased if you could find Dr Romellier.'

'Settled, then.'

'Don't go back to the university,' he hurried to add. He didn't want her questioning the faculty about the decision to ban her. In fact, he didn't want her near the Science Faculty until he'd been able to restore her position. He smiled. She'd be grateful, of course, which would be delightful. He could confess and they'd laugh about it together, because everything had turned out for the best . . .

'I have my own resources,' Caroline said and Aubrey's daydream vanished.

'Like Inspector Paul does,' George said. 'Good show.'

'If we're going separate ways,' Aubrey said in an attempt to regain control of a conversation that had run away from him, 'we must make arrangements to meet again. To share our findings.'

'Very well.' She paused and tapped the bag she held. Aubrey thought she carried it like a weapon. 'But tracking down Dr Romellier shouldn't take all day.'

'It won't?'

'I doubt it. What else can I do to help?'

'What about the letters, old man?' George suggested.

'Letters?' Caroline asked.

'Some correspondence between my grandmother and my grandfather.'

'Your grandfather? The Steel Duke? The man who put down the Timlitz Uprising?'

Aubrey had few memories of his grandfather. Mostly, the old man was just a gigantic, prickly moustache, but Aubrey did remember wild piggyback rides through the long corridors at Maidstone, his grandfather hallooing and scaring the servants, young Aubrey clinging and laughing as they galloped.

None of which matched the description in the history books: the Duke of Brayshire, Albion's most ruthless commander in the nineteenth century, a tireless prosecutor of Albion's interests on the Continent, always well connected to members of the government. Incorruptible, but much feared by his enemies – especially after the Timlitz Uprising.

'The letters have fallen into the hands of collectors,' Aubrey said, 'and she'd like them back.' He explained about Monsieur Caron. 'If I get time, I'll look into it. Again, I'm sure I can sort this out.' Then she glanced at Aubrey with what he could have sworn was an expression of mischief. He blinked and it was gone. 'Now,' she said, 'there is something I want in return for this assistance.'

Aubrey was on the verge of saying 'Anything', but he managed to bite his tongue. 'Yes?'

'Your presence tonight.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'At rehearsal. Claude tells me that the players haven't seen you for an age.'

'Ah. I see.' He paused. 'Duval has been to see you?'

Caroline ignored this. 'It's not like you to renege on a commitment like this. Besides, it tarnishes the reputation of Albion.'

'Can't have that, old man,' George said mischievously. 'Tarnish in these tricky times? Unthinkable.'

Aubrey thought George was enjoying this entirely too much. 'I'll be there. With George, of course.'

'Naturally,' George said. 'Wouldn't miss it.'

'Tonight, then. At Tontine Hall. I'll meet you there.'

It was with decidedly mixed feelings that Aubrey watched Caroline walk off. As always, he liked watching her move with such economy and grace, but he knew that the rehearsal was something he didn't need, not on top of everything else.

'Ready to go, George?'

'With a song in my heart and a smile on my lips.'

Aubrey groaned.

Fifteen

THE METRO TRAIN TOOK THEM TO THE CORNER OF Perseverance and Equality Streets. They stood across the street from the gates of the Liberty Gardens and studied the flamboyant ironwork. Aubrey thought Monsieur Ronin's gate was a masterpiece, with its intertwining fronds reaching for the sky before bending over to interlock and form the arch that was the entrance to the park.

'That gate puts me in mind of a salad,' George said. 'Makes me hungry.'

'We can eat after we've done our reconnoitring.' Aubrey knew that an eatery was never far away in Lutetia.

He also knew that the Lutetians loved a park. Any green space in the city was alive with couples, families, artists, balloon vendors, dog walkers or simple admirers of nature. Park benches were much sought after. Each pond sported enough model boats to start a navy – handy, should any diminutive enemies attack.

Which is why Aubrey was struck by the emptiness of the Liberty Gardens, particularly on a Sunday. In the first ten minutes walking along the main path, he spied a solitary lad trying to fly a kite without much success. The only other person he saw was an artist near the ornamental lake, sitting on a camp stool and weeping in front of a blank canvas.

George shivered as they passed. 'I wouldn't put that up on my wall.'

Aubrey glanced over his shoulder and saw the artist throwing the canvas into the water, then his easel and palette. He stood on the shore, amid the reeds, tearing at his hair. 'Neither would he.'

The flower beds lining the paths were jaded, but sagging marigolds and snapdragons assaulted the eye with garish colours. Aubrey was glad when the path led down an avenue of plane trees.

'What are we looking for?' George asked.

Aubrey put his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a handful of brick fragments. He held them in his palm and they moved, restlessly, like a nest of beetles. 'That way.' He pointed and carefully put the brick pieces back.

The path reached an intersection and Aubrey took the right-hand way. They passed a deep pit in a garden bed, almost a shaft, that looked as if it had recently opened, raw earth around its mouth. A rank smell came from it.

The path took them to a denser section of woodland that soon opened out into a circular expanse of lawn surrounded by bushy thickets. The lawn sloped in from the rim to the centre, making a virtual bowl about a hundred yards or so in diameter.

Aubrey and George stood at the edge of the lawn, staring at the building in the middle of the grass.

'Is that as old as it looks?' George asked.

'No. It's not an real pagan temple. It's a re-creation, made to look old.'

'They've done a good job.'

Aubrey had to agree. It seemed like the ideal of a classical shrine: round, with pillars supporting a dome. Five steps led up to the arched entrance, which was surmounted by a frieze.

'A hundred years ago, this was very fashionable,' Aubrey explained. 'Rich people wanted to show their classical roots. They threw up these things wherever they could find an empty patch of soil. Then they'd retire to them and try to write poetry. It rarely worked.'

All was quiet. Aubrey fidgeted. Something was missing.

'Birds,' George said.

'Birds?'

'No birds. I saw you looking around and wondering what was amiss. There should be blackbirds, sparrows, even pigeons. Perfect place for 'em.'

'I knew a country lad like you would be useful one day.'

'Country lad, Renaissance man, much the same thing.'

Aubrey snorted and set off down the path toward the temple. George fell in beside him. 'You think this is wise, old man, a direct frontal assault like this?'

'It's not an assault of any kind. We're simply sightseers out for a day's strolling. We're being covert by being open. Much better than trying to sneak around the place. We'd be easily spotted by anyone inside the temple, so we may as well pretend we're harmless. If we approach casually, a doubt must remain in the mind of any observer.'

When they reached the arched portico, they stopped and stared at the frieze.

'What are they up to?' George asked after a time.

'Cavorting. Those pagan gods did a lot of cavorting.'

George was silent for a moment. 'They'd be nymphs, then, with the goaty god?'

'Nymphs. Dryads. Assorted naiads. And the goaty god is Pan.'

'Pan, eh? Looks like he's having a good time.'

'Those gods did, George. It was their job.'

'Lucky devils.'

Aubrey's jacket pocket was tugging, moved by the insistence of the brick fragments. He had to place his hand on his jacket to keep them from bursting through the fabric.

Inside, the temple was a round open space. Light filtered in through circular windows in the base of the dome. The floor was tessellated, an array of tiles in an intricate geometric arrangement, black, white and red.

Aubrey stood just inside and flexed his fingers. He felt the unmistakeable traces of magic in the place, both old and new, signs that magicians had been at work. Underneath that he felt a rhythmical surge of different magic, low and powerful, thick with potency. It was like standing in a river with a strong current, one that changed direction every few seconds, tugging, then pushing, tugging then pushing.

It had the hallmarks of the Heart of Gold.

'No-one here,' George whispered.

'I can see that,' Aubrey whispered in return. Despite being alone, the marble space seemed to demand hushed tones.

George looked over his shoulder. 'But someone's coming.'

'Furtive or otherwise?'

'Furtive. Very furtive.'

'Excellent.

They took up positions on either side of the entrance, hidden by marble pillars that were wrapped in stone grapevines. Footsteps approached, slowly, stealthily.

A man stepped through the arch. He was wearing a long coat, a homburg hat and black gloves, and he was carrying a cane.

'Von Stralick!' Aubrey cried.

The Holmland spy moved quickly, swinging his walking stick. Aubrey leapt to one side and collided with the marble pillar. He hit his head, hard, and stars jumped around in his brain. His legs felt like jelly.

With a shout, George launched himself from his hiding place. Von Stralick had been staring at Aubrey, but lashed out, backhanded, at this new assailant.

George ducked, took the blow on his upper arm, then launched a tremendous uppercut.

Von Stralick's feet lifted off the floor. His eyes rolled up in his head and he toppled.

George stood over the spy. He unclenched his fists and rubbed his knuckles. 'Aubrey. Are you all right?'

'Head's ringing like a bell, but not too bad otherwise.'

'I didn't see who it was. I just saw him attack you.'

'It was a mistake, I think. He was on a short fuse, obviously expecting danger.'

Von Stralick groaned, opened his eyes and sat up. George fetched the Holmlander's hat from where it had rolled some yards away.

'Fitzwilliam. Doyle.' Von Stralick prodded his jaw and flinched. 'You beat me here. How did you find it?'

'Do you think I'm going to reveal my methods, von Stralick?'

Von Stralick eyed George. 'You caught me by surprise, Doyle, otherwise you wouldn't have touched me.'

'No doubt,' George said. 'But I'm willing to give you a chance in the ring, any time you'd like.'

'Ach, I've no time for such indulgences,' von Stralick said after a moment, waving George away. 'And we don't have much time, either, to find what we've come for.'

'There's nothing here,' George protested.

'Yes there is,' Aubrey said. He put his hand in his jacket pocket and took out some brick pieces. He had to hold them tightly to prevent them from flying through the air. His hand was pulled down toward the tessellated floor. 'The Heart of Gold must be down there somewhere.'

'How'd you find this place, von Stralick?' George demanded as he extended a hand and helped the Holmlander to his feet.

'My methods are less mysterious than Fitzwilliam's.' He brushed off his coat and took his hat. 'My superiors told me about it. It's a long-time Holmlander refuge, for use in emergencies.'

'Like during a blockade of the city?' Aubrey asked. 'And which superiors would this be? The ones who know what's going on, or the ones who don't?'

'I don't trust any of them,' von Stralick said bitterly.

'Probably a good idea, that,' George said. He glanced through the door. 'Hello. Looks as if we have company.'

'Furtive or otherwise?' Aubrey asked.

'Otherwise, this time. Both of them.'

Aubrey went to the entrance. Striding along the path were two men Aubrey had seen before, in unpleasant circumstances. He backed away from the entrance. 'Two people,' he told von Stralick. 'A fake police captain and one of the men who stole the Heart of Gold.'

Von Stralick took a quick look and grimaced. 'Muller and Schnagel. The two rogue Holmland agents.'

'Friends of yours?' George asked.

'Renegades. Very, very bad men.' Von Stralick scowled. 'They were the ones who tried to kill me at the airfield the other night.'

'Why?' Aubrey asked.

'They felt my presence was not helpful.' Von Stralick frowned. 'I do not want to be found by them.'

'Nor do we,' Aubrey said.

AUBREY, GEORGE AND VON STRALICK HELD THEIR BREATH as Muller and Schnagel entered the temple.

Muller had abandoned his police uniform. He wore a round, flat cap over his grizzled hair, and a long black coat. His eye-patch gave him a suitably sinister appearance. Schnagel had a broad face and hands that seemed oversized for his stocky body.

They watched as the Holmlanders glanced around the empty space. Muller peered into the shadowed recesses between the pillars, checking for intruders, while Schnagel walked around the perimeter.

Aubrey held tight and refused to acknowledge the tickle in his upper lip. There's no reason for them to look up, he thought fervently. No reason at all.

Levitation spells had never been his specialty, but he found it was true that the prospect of imminent death concentrated the mind wonderfully. He'd managed to cobble together a spell that solidified the shafts of light streaming from the windows in the dome. He, George and von Stralick were able to clamber up them – despite the fragments of brick that pulled Aubrey in the wrong direction – and perch on the ledge just above the tops of the pillars. Aubrey was barely able to cancel the spell before Muller and Schnagel entered.

If the Holmlanders glanced up, they'd see three figures clinging to the interior of the dome, grasping at corbels and pilasters. Fortunately for Aubrey and his friends, the two Holmlanders were much more concerned with looking down than up.

While he desperately tried to hang on while not making a sound, he found himself staring at the pattern on the floor. The more he stared, the more intrigued he became until it resolved itself into a giant, many-pointed star reaching right to the walls. It was entirely made of red, black and white tiles, mostly triangles, but with carefully placed squares to keep the pattern regular.

Aubrey soon realised that Muller and Schnagel were paying just as much attention to the pattern as he was. After some discussion and pointing, Muller stood back against the wall as Schnagel went into a bizarre, skipping dance.

The Holmlander lifted his knees high, hopping, turning, swivelling and hopping again. He moved backward and forward, sometimes three steps backward for every forward step. His general direction was in a large circuit around the array. His face was serious, his lips moving slightly. Muller was watching keenly, and his lips were moving as well, in time with Schnagel's dance.

Patterns, Aubrey told himself. It's all in the patterns. Schnagel's dance was not random – he was stepping on specific points of the star pattern.

The Holmlander finished with a flourish: a double step on a black point, then a leap over a red one to land, with both feet, on another black point. He stood there, panting, and nodded. 'Done,' he said in Holmlandish.

'Good,' Muller replied.

A deep, grinding sound came from the bowels of the temple. Schnagel wiped his brow. Muller nodded and touched his eye-patch.

Aubrey felt a surge of magic. His fingers tingled, then – for an alarming moment – went numb. He clutched at his handholds, and was grateful when the numbness receded.

Below, the middle circle of the pattern trembled. With a grating rumble, it began to descend, slowly. Soon, Aubrey could see a ladder leading into the depths. A low growl came from the darkness below the floor, which caused some consternation in the Holmlanders. Muller took a revolver from under his coat and gestured to the ladder.

Wait, Aubrey motioned to von Stralick and George. Muller and Schnagel climbed down the ladder.

Now, it was simply a matter of getting down without being detected. He looked to the windows and again rehearsed the spell for solidifying sunlight, but his thoughts were interrupted.

A cry came from the depths of the temple, then a gun shot. The whole world rippled, and Aubrey gasped, stunned by the immensity of the magic rolling from beneath the temple. He felt, for an instant, as if he were being crumpled like a sheet of paper. The sensation took all the breath from him, then it was gone and it was replaced by one more familiar, but equally upsetting.

He was falling.

He flailed, trying to catch hold of something – anything! In a frozen instant, he saw that he was going to miss his lunge at the ledge, and that George and von Stralick had been thrown off as well.

He also saw the bewildering sight of the dome and the walls of the temple being stretched upward like soft toffee that had been left in the sun.

Then time resumed its march and the floor rushed up to meet him. He struck – and bounced upward a full six feet.

While grateful, it wasn't exactly what he'd been bracing for – marble, in his experience, being notoriously inflexible. He struck the floor again and rebounded in a state of complete bafflement.

By the time he'd managed to control his up and down motion, he'd come to the conclusion that whatever magic had twisted the substance of the temple had changed the floor too. Shakily, he stood and kicked at its soft sponginess.

George staggered over, wobbling and rubbing his elbow. 'I thought we were doomed.'

Von Stralick limped over. 'Have you seen my cane?'

'We have more important things to –'

A roar came from beneath the temple. Aubrey, George and von Stralick whirled. A scream was followed by two more shots then another roar. A part of Aubrey's brain – a part that remembered that his ancestors were simians who spent their entire existence terrified and trying not to be eaten – made the hair on the back of his neck stir and rise at the sound of that roar.

Suddenly, a lion bounded out of the depths and stood facing them. It shook its mane and roared again, a sound full of blood and teeth, its echoes shaking the walls of the temple.

A lion, Aubrey managed to think, which was better than the gibbering he was on the verge of. A real, live, angry lion.

The brute was enormous, and Aubrey, frozen to the spot, thought it had a presence that made it seem even larger. His heart hammered, his hands curled into puny fists. The lion's vast animal solidity emphasised – in a very real and threatening way – how vulnerable, how weak humans were. The lion was a hunter, unchallenged and mighty, while Aubrey felt that he was definitely in the category of 'food'.

George stared, his eyes wide, his mouth open. 'Good Lord,' he eventually managed to say, almost reverentially.

Without taking his eyes off the lion, von Stralick bent and groped around on the floor. When he straightened he had his cane. Slowly, he drew back his right hand and pulled out the sword that had been hidden inside.

The lion was unsettled by the spongy floor. It lifted and dropped its paws, snarling and twitching its tail.

As if it's not enough to be facing a lion, Aubrey thought, we have to have one that's in a bad mood.

The lion finally settled its attention on Aubrey, George and von Stralick. Rumbling deep in its chest, it began to stalk toward them.

Aubrey's stomach did its best to turn to ice. He backed away across the bouncy floor, his magical senses itching. This lion had something magical about it, but its undeniable physical presence was overwhelming such considerations. Aubrey couldn't take his eyes from the enormous canine teeth – ivory daggers that looked extremely functional.

Shouts and noise from beneath the floor of the temple made it stop and swing its head around. Aubrey, George and von Stralick took the opportunity to sidle around the hole, keeping it between them and the lion. Aubrey was glad to see that the entrance was not far away.

The lion stared down into the darkness, then it roared again. It lowered its forequarters and, with one great paw, swatted at something below. It looked, for all the world, like a cat trying to catch goldfish in a pond.

A gunshot made the lion pull back, snarling, but then it slashed again, drawing a Holmlander oath.

'Easy,' Aubrey murmured. 'Move slowly and we can get out of here.'

'I support that,' von Stralick said fervently.

'I'm all in favour of the plan,' George said. 'Let's end discussion right now.'

They eased out of the temple. Behind them, roaring, shouting and gunshots indicated that the lion and the Holmlanders were coming to closer quarters. Aubrey eyed the trees in the distance. 'Do you think we can get to them before the lion does?'

'There's one way to find out,' George said.

Von Stralick didn't say anything. He sheathed his sword stick and started sprinting.

PERCHED ON THE ACCOMMODATING BOUGH OF AN OAK, Aubrey watched as two Holmlanders scrambled out of the temple. They scattered.

A few seconds later, the lion burst out, roaring challenges to all. Then it bounded across the grass and crashed into the thicket, disappearing in seconds.

'Muller and Schnagel haven't come out,' Aubrey noted.

'Alive or dead?' von Stralick wondered. The Holmlander shared a branch with George. 'And is the Heart of Gold still there?'

Aubrey reached for his pocket. The fragments were less urgent but seemed to be pointing away from the temple. 'I don't think so.'

'Let's make sure,' George said. He dropped to the ground and started toward the temple. Aubrey approved of his knees-bent, arms-spread gait. It was the model of caution.

'Any sign of the lion?' von Stralick called.

George shook his head.

Aubrey slid, gripped the bough, then eased himself to the leaf-covered earth. Von Stralick grumbled as he climbed down. 'A lion? What on earth is a lion doing in Lutetia? I thought they lived in Sahelia.'

Aubrey brushed himself off. 'Lions once lived right across the Continent. Probably they roamed around right here, like bears used to.'

Bears. Aubrey stopped dead. Bears, elk, aurochs and now lions. All of them former denizens of these parts, now hunted into oblivion. They would have been commonplace to the original settlers in these parts. In the Gallian past.

He hummed a little. He knew he had a significant point on his hands, but no matter how he turned it, he couldn't quite see its entire shape. It was frustrating, but he had to be content that he'd made some progress in sorting out the many mysteries that had fallen on Lutetia.

He joined George, who was crouching and scanning the area. 'All quiet,' he reported.

'No sign of the lion?'

'No. Nor of anyone else coming from the temple.'

'Look at the dome,' Aubrey said.

It was smeared, as if it had been softened and then pushed to one side by a giant thumb. Aubrey was fascinated. Such forces should have cracked the stonework, crumbled the concrete, but the very nature of the materials must have changed while they were being stretched. Most had returned to their original hardness, but the rubbery floor – fortunately – had retained its changed nature.

When they reached the temple, von Stralick held his sword stick ready and went first. George followed, while Aubrey came last.

The interior was quiet. They crossed the floor in a series of awkward, bouncing steps. Aubrey went onto his hands and knees and peered into the depths.

'See anything, old man?' George asked.

'Not yet.' Aubrey summoned a glow light, a novice's spell. He could make out the iron ladder clinging to the side of a round shaft two or three yards across, and a tunnel opening from it at the bottom. 'No wild beasts, no Holmlanders.'

He sat back on his haunches. The tunnel led north. The gardens extended for another mile or so in that direction. After that?

'Is it safe?' von Stralick asked.

'I've no idea.'

'The Heart of Gold?' George asked.

'It's not down there.'

'Not wanting to state the obvious, but that means it's somewhere else then. Any ideas?'

Aubrey shrugged. 'Von Stralick?'

The Holmlander clicked his tongue. 'Let us examine what lies beneath the temple. It may give us some notion of what Muller and Schnagel are up to.'

Von Stralick climbed down the ladder.

When Aubrey reached the bottom of the shaft, von Stralick had already entered the tunnel. From the light of Aubrey's glow spell, he could see that the Holmlander was bent nearly double, and he held his sword stick in front of him.

After about twenty or thirty feet, Aubrey stumbled out of the tunnel to find von Stralick standing upright, studying his surroundings. 'A bunker,' he declared. 'This is the refuge I spoke of. Probably built while the temple above was being constructed. Done secretly, of course.'

They were in a round area about four yards across. An oil lantern hung from the low ceiling, which was just above von Stralick's head, and another tunnel mouth opened opposite the one George just emerged from. A table and five mismatched chairs stood in the middle of the round space, and piles of bedding were thrown against the walls. Some of the bedding was torn and shredded. Four doors opened onto the area. None were closed, and in the closest Aubrey could see a fourdrawered cabinet and a desk. A map pinned to the wall of the room showed Lutetia and the environs.

'This belongs to Holmland?' George asked.

'It looks like one of ours, and we saw Muller and Schnagel enter.'

'D'you have any like it in Albion?'

Von Stralick smiled. 'Why would we have any refuges in Albion? And would I tell you if we did?'

'You've checked the rooms?' Aubrey asked. He cancelled his glow light, not needing it with the oil lantern.

'I did. We are alone.'

George kicked at a pile of bedding, then stepped back. 'I say. Blood.'

Aubrey went to his friend. The blankets were soaked in red. 'Whoever it belonged to would be in a very bad way by now.'

'We have a trail.' Von Stralick pointed at the floor with his sword stick. He took the oil lantern. 'The blood leads to the other tunnel.'

THE TUNNEL WAS WELL MADE – LINED WITH RED BRICK that kept it dry and solid. Aubrey found himself admiring the planning that had gone into preparing this hideyhole. Months of work, all of it secret, to construct something for an uncertain future.

The tunnel was unbranching, and Aubrey soon grew tired of walking hunched over. He knew that George and von Stralick, being taller, must have found it much more uncomfortable, but they didn't complain, shuffling along in silence.

Aubrey was entranced by the light of the bobbing oil lantern that von Stralick held up. The soft yellow light pushed away the darkness, showing the way through the unknown. He smiled at the image. It appealed to him, and he likened it to the search for knowledge – especially magical knowledge. More light, less darkness. More knowledge, less ignorance.

After some time, George spoke up. 'I say, von Stralick, where d'you think we are?'

'In a tunnel, my good friend. Any more than that I cannot say.'

'That's not very helpful,' George grumbled.

'I know this sort of tunnel,' von Stralick said with a touch of irritation. 'It's a back-door escape, in case the hideaway was compromised. If we follow it, we may find where Muller and Schnagel went.'

'Just as long as there are no traps or pits,' George said.

They walked in silence for some time. Aubrey took the chance to mull over the events of the past days. The events at the Marchmaine printing works were still puzzling him.

'Von Stralick.'

The Holmlander didn't turn around. 'Yes, my friend?'

'Why did Muller and his thugs attack the Marchmaine printing works?'

Von Stralick chuckled. 'I was wondering when you would ask about that.'

'Well?'

'Muller and Schnagel are rogues, out of control, but they are still Holmlanders. I'd say they're still interested in sowing strife between Marchmaine and the Gallian officials, to encourage Marchmaine to break away from the oppressors.'

It sounded plausible, but Aubrey knew enough not to take von Stralick at face value. 'And that's all?'

'Who knows? Perhaps they were after you. The son of the Albion Prime Minister, working for Marchmaine independence? What a scandal! The alliance would be under great strain, and with no alliance, do you think it would take long before Holmland was marching on Gallia?'

Aubrey went cold. He hadn't thought of that, and it gave him much to contemplate as they trudged on in silence.

By Aubrey's watch, they followed the blood trail for nearly an hour.

When it finally gave out onto the open, he heaved a great sigh and shaded his eyes from the sun. The fresh air was sweet and invigorating after the dry dustiness of the tunnel.

They were in a railway cutting, a few yards above a double track that bent away from them to the north and south. Aubrey examined the tunnel exit, which was cleverly concealed by a false signal box.

George groaned as he stretched and straightened. 'My back.'

A train screamed past in a cloud of steam, disappearing into the afternoon. 'We're near the Northside Station,' Aubrey said, remembering their arrival in Lutetia. He felt a tremor underfoot, but couldn't tell if it was caused by a nearby train or not. 'The shunting yards are just over there.'

Von Stralick kicked at the stone-covered ground with frustration. 'Muller and Schnagel will be well away by now.'

'Muller and Schnagel and one other man,' George said.

'What?' von Stralick said.

George pointed at the ground. It was soft and covered with boot prints. 'Definitely three pairs of boots here. Two of the men are able-bodied, one is limping. And bleeding.'

'Ah,' Aubrey said. 'Lion-induced injury?'

George shrugged. 'Probably.'

Aubrey studied the curved roofs of the station. 'The blockade won't let them get beyond the city limits.'

Von Stralick snorted. 'These men are professionals. They have a whole city to hide in.'

'I don't aim to search the whole city,' Aubrey said. 'Just the parts where they are.'

Sixteen

AT FIVE O'CLOCK, CAROLINE WAS WAITING FOR THEM in front of Tontine Hall. Music came through the open windows, the piano once more banging out one of Ivey and Wetherall's finest.

Caroline scrutinised them as they drew closer. 'Aubrey. George. I'm glad to see that you're both in one piece.'

George looked down and patted his chest. 'Why wouldn't we be?'

'Whenever I leave you to your own resources, you seem to come back damaged. I was worried about you all afternoon.'

'You were worried about us?' Aubrey raised an eyebrow.

'Concerned. Troubled, in a broad and general way.'

'We had a tough time of it, when's all said and done,' George put in. 'We were attacked by a lion.'

'A lion?'

'We'll tell you later,' Aubrey said. 'What were you saying about being worried about us?'

'Never mind that. Don't you want to know what I've managed to find out today?'

'Of course,' he said. 'Did you find Dr Romellier?'

'I've found where he is, but I doubt if you'll believe me.'

Aubrey had had much experience with the unbelievable. People would never believe what I'm prepared to believe, he thought. 'Where is he?'

'The airfield.'

'What?' George said. 'The military field? St Martin?'

'The same.'

Aubrey rubbed his forehead. 'But what would an ornithologist be doing at a facility for building dirigibles? And why didn't we see him there?'

Caroline looked smug. 'Dr Romellier has been seconded by the Gallian government. With his expertise in wing structures, he's been asked to explore new airship design, living at the base so he can oversee any construction.'

'Would he willingly work for the government on something like this?' Aubrey said. 'It sounds a bit farfetched.'

'He apparently made his participation conditional. He extracted a guarantee from the government to modify an airship with a special observation platform and send it on a bird-spotting expedition in Sahelia.'

'Crafty devil,' George said. 'Sounds a trifle obsessed, though.'

'Birds are all he thinks about, apparently. That's how I managed to find his whereabouts.'

'Birds?' Aubrey said.

'You told me about the pigeon loft on top of Dr Romellier's last known residence. I wondered if the keeper may still be in touch with the good doctor via pigeon post.'

'You spoke to Moir without being abused?' George asked.

'I found him to be a charming man. A little abrupt, but perfectly polite when approached properly.'

Aubrey couldn't help but feel that being a startlingly attractive young woman was a useful advantage in approaching any Gallian. 'He volunteered all this information about Dr Romellier? He said he didn't know where Dr Romellier was.'

'I managed to convince him of my scientific credentials by telling him about my studies on the taxonomy of nudibranchs. He probed me about some niceties of classification and, satisfied, he answered some questions. Guardedly, after telling me his responsibility was to keep busybodies away from Dr Romellier.'

It was George's turn to express disbelief. 'He talked about science? He was just a crazy old man.'

'Professor Moir is the Emeritus Professor of Zoology at the University of Lutetia.'

'I told you there was more to that crazy old man than met the eye,' George said to Aubrey.

'Clever and eccentric,' Aubrey mused. 'I've never heard of that before.'

Caroline favoured him with a mildly scathing look that he quite enjoyed. She went on. 'He told me that he had some pigeons from the airfield and could communicate with Dr Romellier – and vice versa. Dr Romellier is full of suggestions about the care and feeding of the birds. Monsieur Moir ignores these, of course. They seem to have a testy relationship.'

Aubrey considered this titbit. 'Did Professor Moir mention when he had his last communication from Dr Romellier?'

'I managed to prise that piece of information out of him. Really, Aubrey, you seem to think you're the only one with any brains at all.'

'Sorry.' He had a feeling he should get used to using that word with Caroline. 'So Dr Romellier is still at the airfield.'

'As of yesterday. That's when Professor Moir had a message with a recommendation for adding malt to the pigeon's feed if the weather starts to turn cold.'

'Not much chance of that,' George said. 'Sticky sweltering, that's the way the weather's headed.'

'Are Renaissance men experts in Lutetian weather, too?' Aubrey asked.

'Of course,' George said, beaming.

Aubrey hummed a little. It would be a relief to be able to cross Dr Romellier off his list of things to do, and even better if he could do it before his mother arrived. While she was understanding, she also had high expectations.

He rolled his eyes. High expectations. He was surrounded by people with high expectations, including himself. One of his main challenges was finding a way to deal with all these expectations without going mad.

'Thank you,' he said to Caroline. 'You've made more progress in one day than I have in a week. I'm very appreciative.'

Her face coloured, which took Aubrey by surprise. He watched the process with fascination. 'It wasn't that difficult,' she said.

'And the letters? I know it's much to ask, but were you able to find anything regarding them?'

'Oh. The letters. Nothing there, I'm afraid. Not yet.'

Is she flustered? Aubrey thought. I thought that was my role. 'Never mind.'

'The shop was closed, you see, and Monsieur Caron hasn't been seen for days, according to a usefully nosy neighbour. When I told Mother, she tried ringing a few numbers she had, but no-one has seen him since Monday. Mother was worried.'

Monday. That was when Aubrey had visited the document shop. Monsieur Caron had promised to fetch his letters concerning the Treaty of St Anne. A mysterious disappearance, letters concerning Albion and Marchmaine – Aubrey was intrigued and wished he'd pressed Monsieur Caron for the letters. He was sure that the document merchant would have responded quickly if he was offered a good enough price.

No, he ordered himself, knowing that if his curiosity was roused he'd find himself wasting time on this wild goose chase. No. It's not important. We have more vital things to do.

George saw Aubrey's preoccupied expression and took the opportunity to tell Caroline of their escapade with the lion.

'So you're both heroes?' Caroline said when George finished. 'Tackling a lion with bare hands?'

Aubrey winced. 'Well, I wouldn't say "tackling". Running away in terror would be more accurate.'

'While planning a way to trap the beast in a pit, inventing a new spell for animal charming and coming up with a novel way to use ancient Sanskrit in magic casting, I'm sure.'

'Is that a compliment?' Aubrey asked.

'Take it how you will.' Caroline smiled and held Aubrey's gaze for a moment. 'I think I've learned enough about you to call that a reasonable description of your usual method of operating.'

'She's spot-on there, old man,' George added. 'Summed you up perfectly.'

Caroline covered her mouth with her hand, but her eyes were merry. She coughed, delicately, then inclined her head toward the hall. 'Claude is waiting for us.'

THE ALBION FRIENDSHIP SOCIETY'S RANKS HAD GROWN since Aubrey had last joined them. He wondered if the unrest was sparking interest in supporting Gallia's ally of the moment. He supposed, if one couldn't fight, then singing jolly songs of Albion was a reasonable alternative.

The hall was lit by gaslights. The temporary seating was stacked against walls that were covered with posters, several layers deep in some places. The cast was assembled on the stage with the piano front and centre. While a new pianist flailed away, Claude Duval stood, arms crossed and frowning. With Gallian enthusiasm, the chorus members clutched song sheets and tackled 'The Shanty of a Salty Sailor'.

The song ended with reasonable proficiency. Duval clapped his hands and congratulated his team. Then he saw the newcomers.

'Caroline!' he cried. He leapt off the stage and ran to them, eventually realising he should acknowledge the others. 'Fitzwilliam. Doyle. Good to see you.'

He clasped Caroline's shoulders. 'Where have you been? Your presence has been much missed.'

'Short on backstage crew, are you?' Aubrey asked.

Duval frowned, puzzled. 'What do you mean?'

'Never mind. It'd just explain why you're so pleased to see Caroline.'

'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, and 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.'

'Understandable,' Caroline said. 'I'm sure you had other things on your mind.'

Aubrey sat back in his chair, frowning. He crossed his arms on his chest. 'It's not working.'

'Why not, old man?' George said. 'It worked last time. We found the thing, didn't we?'

Aubrey leaned forward again. He held his hand over the brick fragments, as if they were coals in a fire. 'Their power has faded. I can't use them any more.'

'We'll find another way, then,' Caroline said.

Aubrey was heartened by her confidence. He rubbed his hands together, slowly, and tried to think of a way to impress her with his ingenuity. Before he could, however, a bell-ringing juggernaut thundered past the restaurant. The patrons, stunned for a moment, rushed out and stood in front of the bistro, catcalling and gesticulating.

Aubrey couldn't sit idly and ignore such a commotion. While George and Caroline were still looking quizzically at the uproar, he was out of his chair. Joining the carters on the pavement, he watched the fire engine as it hurtled away from them, sparks flying from the shoes of the straining horses.

The carters cheered when another fire engine careered around the corner, nearly flinging off one of the grim, brass-helmeted firemen, and flew up the street after the first.

Aubrey sniffed the air, thoughtfully. George and Caroline emerged from the restaurant. 'A fire?' she asked.

'A large one,' Aubrey said. He found the proprietor of the bistro in the crowd and thrust a wad of notes into his hand as payment for their meal. 'I want to see the skyline, to get some idea where it is.'

'The river,' George suggested. 'The Martyr's Bridge is not far away.'

Standing in the middle of the Martyr's Bridge gave an unimpeded view of the city to the north and south. They weren't alone, either, as concerned Lutetian citizens had gathered to see the fiery spectacle.

Aubrey counted four separate fires away to the south. Flames raked the night sky and the smoke, stained red and orange, streamed away to the east, blown by the wind. The breeze brought the smell of char and ash to him, overwhelming the rotten smell that had overlaid the city for the last few days. The bells of fire engines swooped over the city like swallows.

A dog began to howl. Aubrey shivered. The sound was both forlorn and fierce, a sound from the dawn of time, when Lutetia was a few huts clustered on the banks of a river.

He straightened, blinking. 'Let's go.'

Caroline frowned. 'Where?'

'We need to find whatever's doing that howling.'

'We want a stray dog?'

He grinned. 'That was no dog. That was a wolf.'

Seventeen

AUBREY HAD HEARD WOLVES BEFORE, WHEN HE FISHED for salmon at Bertie's highland estate. The chorus of howls always began low, almost hiccuping, but when two or three or more wolves joined together, the howls became a reminder of the wild that lurked on the edge of civilisation.

Aubrey, George and Caroline stood on the Martyr's bridge, listening to the city noises – hooves and wheels on cobblestones, motorcar engines, the bells of far-off fire engines and the faint sounds of angry shouting.

Curling through these familiar, urban sounds was the cry of the wolf.

'Why are we looking for a wolf?' Caroline asked. 'Hasn't your meeting with the lion taught you anything about wildlife?'

'That's the exact point,' Aubrey said. 'Wildlife in the middle of Lutetia? And not just ordinary wildlife – animals that haven't been seen for years. It's not natural.'

'Agreed, old man,' George said. 'The city certainly isn't the place for beasties like that.'

'The lion, the bear and the aurochs had something magical about them. It could be the influence of the Heart of Gold, some side effect of its removal, or it might even be something to do with the sort of rogue magic that erupted on the Middle Bridge.' He drummed a fist against his thigh. 'I need more information.'

'Information is a light in the darkness,' Caroline said. She glanced at Aubrey with a wry smile. 'You're not the only one who has read the Scholar Tan, you know.'

Before Aubrey could overcome his astonishment and question her, the howling drifted to them again. George cocked his head, listening. 'This way.' He set off.

'George is a country lad at heart,' Aubrey explained to Caroline as they hurried to keep up with him. 'He's attuned to this sort of thing.'

George snorted. 'There hasn't been a wolf in our parts for centuries. Foxes, on the other hand . . .'

They crossed the bridge to the north bank and paused. 'We go that way,' George said, pointing. 'North-west.'

This took them through the financial district, with the forbidding façades of banks opposite the equally grim frontage of the stock exchange. The elegance and good taste of much of the city had barely touched this quarter, as if ornamentation would be frivolous.

With George leading, Aubrey walked next to Caroline – an arrangement he appreciated. At times, however, he had the impression that someone was following them. The stifled echoes of footsteps came to him, but when he glanced back, he could see nothing.

George stood at the intersection of three streets, frowning. The gaslight at the corner shed yellow radiance over a tobacconist's shop. 'Which way?' Aubrey asked.

'No idea. The wolf has stopped its howling. Weren't you paying attention?'

'I left it to you, George. Your sort of thing.'

'Urban wolf-hunting? I suppose it's the sort of thing a Renaissance man would be good at.'

Aubrey stood with his hands in his pockets. 'Where are we?'

'The Revolutionary Monument is just over there,' Caroline said.

In a gap between two official-looking buildings, a bronze globe poked its head up over the surrounding roofs. 'Well,' Aubrey said, 'if George has lost our quarry, I wouldn't mind seeing the shrine of modern Gallia.'

Whistling, he strolled toward the monument. Caroline sighed and went with him. So too did George, frowning and scanning the rooftops.

When they drew closer they saw that the monument was enclosed in a ramshackle structure made of boards and scaffolding. A sign announced that the landmark was in a dangerous condition and was being repaired.

Aubrey tilted back his head. The bronze globe protruded from the enclosure. In the sky, clouds were streaming past and they made the globe look as if it were moving.

'This is what I was talking about,' Caroline said. 'I kept coming across this sort of thing all over the place. It's as if the landmarks of the city are all being hidden away.'

'Really?' Aubrey gazed up at the monument. 'Perhaps the authorities are worried about sabotage.'

'I saw this sort of thing, too,' George said, 'when I was doing that genealogy business. I couldn't get into one church because of a gas leak. Or at least I think that's what the police officer said.'

Aubrey approached the hoarding. An enterprising local business owner had taken the opportunity to plaster them with posters for a revue. The stylised pictures of performers were unsettling in the shadowy light, as if they were terrified instead of cheery. 'George, you didn't bring that pry bar along, did you?'

'Pry bar? No.'

'Pity. I don't know how we're going to get a look inside otherwise.'

'Not again,' Caroline said.

'I beg your pardon?'

'You have that look on your face. The one that says you're about to do something dangerous, or illegal.'

'Or both?' George suggested.

'Or both,' Caroline agreed, nodding sympathetically at George's understanding.

Aubrey thought about this for a moment. 'I can't let my face down, then, can I?'

He walked slowly around the hoarding, humming. It totally surrounded the monument – a wooden hoarding, supported by scaffolding, right up to the level of the brass globe. At the rear, away from the street, he came across a door. A heavy chain and padlock reinforced the bolt.

The cry of the wolf echoed down the street. Aubrey straightened and George caught his eye. 'Are we going? Or has something else caught your attention?'

'Never be afraid to interrupt a plan,' Aubrey said. He bent to examine the lock again. 'Otherwise you may miss an opportunity.'

Caroline came closer. 'Are you trying to think of some magical way of opening that?'

'The thought had occurred to me.'

'Why waste magical effort like that?' She reached up and plucked two hairpins from her hair. 'Stand back.'

She bent both hairpins, one into a wriggly shape, the other at a ninety degree bend, then she inserted them into the key slot. 'Now. Shouldn't be a moment.'

'Wouldn't you like some light? I can conjure up something.'

'Father made me practise in the dark. Said it was good for co-ordination. Nearly . . . There.'

The lock dangled from her hand, unclasped. The two bent hair pins disappeared into her belt.

'Your father made you learn to pick locks.' Aubrey shook his head.

She shrugged. 'You'd be surprised what he insisted on being in my education. He had very modern ideas.'

'Evidently.'

George pushed open the door and peered inside. 'Where's the monument?'

'What?' Aubrey shouldered his way past his friend. Inside the wooden hoarding it was thick with shadows, and Aubrey felt the prickling of deep magic, in his cheekbones this time. He rubbed them, paused and – this time – summoned a light. When its soft radiance filled the space, he nodded.

The Revolutionary Monument wasn't there.

Aubrey felt Caroline's presence. 'That's an impressive feat of thievery,' she said softly.

'I don't think anything's been stolen,' he said, pointing up. 'The globe is still there.'

The golden orb glowed softly in the light that Aubrey had conjured, but it looked as if it was resting on empty air.

Aubrey squinted and revised his first reaction. The concrete base was there, and above it – where the marble pillar should be – was a faint, smoky presence.

Aubrey stepped up to the base. He reached out. When his hand touched the ghostly pillar it met some resistance, but it gradually passed right through with the tingling of magic.

He stepped back and wiped his hands together. 'The monument is still here, but it may not be for long. It's losing its substance.'

George stared. 'What's going on?'

'It's just like at the Academy of Sciences.'

'The city is losing its memories,' Caroline said softly.

'What did you say?' Aubrey asked.

'These monuments and landmarks are important,' she said. 'They're important because they have played a part in Lutetian history. Or they are memorials to important events. Take them away, and the city loses its past.'

'That's right,' Aubrey said. He nearly had it. It was so close he could feel it. 'Tell me, the other buildings you saw boarded up like this, what were they?'

'Landmarks. St Basil's church, for instance.'

'Where the kings of Gallia were baptised. What else?'

'I saw a fountain swathed in canvas,' George said.

'Near Victory Street and Thriftiness Terrace?'

'Right in the middle of the intersection.'

'That was where the revolutionary council had its first meeting, before anyone knew who they were.'

Caroline and George listed the places they'd seen that had been closed off. Each site, they worked out together, had played an important part in Gallian history, from the foundation of the city of Lutetia, to the homes of great thinkers, to the churches where important marriages were celebrated.

'The city is losing its memories, as Caroline puts it,' Aubrey said, 'and it seems to be decaying from under the ground, and the river has stopped flowing.'

'It's as if a plug has been pulled and the whole city is draining away,' George said.

'Inelegant, George, but accurate. So we must do something.' He rubbed his cheekbones again. 'Any chance of finding that wolf now, George?'

'Unlikely, old man, but let's see what we can see.'

THE WOLF HAD FALLEN SILENT. AUBREY, GEORGE AND Caroline wandered the smoky streets, moving in what George hoped was the right direction, but city sounds were all they heard – the rattle of wheels on cobblestones, the sound of fire-engine bells, police whistles. While they went, Aubrey noticed how many of the gas street lights weren't working. It seemed as if the dead lamps were casting pools of darkness that the other lamps were having trouble defeating. He shivered, even though the night was mild.

Aubrey found himself peering at shadowed alleys as they passed, alert for footpads and brigands. Lutetia had changed. The night wasn't carefree, with songs and music drifting over benign rooftops. Buildings glowered down at them as they went, watchful and disapproving. It was no longer the City of Lights.

Rounding a corner near the Norman Hotel, they were confronted by a huge bonfire. When they came closer, Aubrey saw it was a fountain, waterless, where furniture had been piled and set alight. The sculptures of fish and sea horses were black with soot and spouting flames instead of water. It was a hellish inversion of the natural state.

They hurried past, giving the blaze a wide berth.

Finally, Aubrey called off the wolf hunt. George was relieved and weary, but Caroline was disappointed.

The night was giving way to the day as they walked across the bridge to the Isle of the Crown and Caroline's apartment. The blackness overhead was tinged with grey, suggesting dawn was close.

Aubrey jumped when a figure detached itself from the shadows of the apartment building, but the ominous shape resolved itself quickly. 'Von Stralick. Excellent. You've saved us having to find you.'

'I'm glad you're pleased to see me, Fitzwilliam.' He bowed. 'Good morning, Miss Hepworth. Doyle.'

How did he know to wait here? Aubrey wondered. He glanced at the blank faces of the houses opposite. Light shone in one third-floor window and Aubrey guessed that the Hepworths were under surveillance – which meant that von Stralick was not a solo agent; he had others he was working with. He smiled. If he could find out just how extensive the Holmland network was, it would be a nice titbit for the Albion security agencies.

'I don't suppose this is a social call,' George said tersely. Aubrey glanced at his friend. His shoulders were sagging as he leaned against the lamp post at the bottom of the stairs. He was tired, Aubrey realised, and felt a degree of pleasure that it was he who was worrying about George instead of the other way around.

'No,' von Stralick replied. 'It's rather more urgent than that. I have information about your Soul Stealer, and I wish to share it.'

So the expedition to the chemical supplier did turn up something useful. 'In your world, von Stralick, sharing comes at a cost,' Aubrey said. 'What is it you want in return?'

'I want you to come with me. I think we can capture this madman, but I need your magic to do so.'

'Why don't you call on a Holmland magician for assistance? Surely your country has a number hidden away here in Lutetia, ready to help their spies?'

Von Stralick grimaced. 'You need an explanation for everything, don't you, Fitzwilliam?'

'Oh yes,' Caroline said. 'Aubrey without an explanation is like a dog without a bone.'

Aubrey nodded. 'You're operating under difficulty here, von Stralick, aren't you? You're under-resourced.'

Aubrey could have sworn that the Holmlander actually squirmed. 'There is much I cannot tell you.'

'Granted.'

'But I must tell you something.'

'Are you arguing with us or with yourself?'

Von Stralick glanced at the building opposite. 'Not here. And we have no time to spare. We must hurry.'

VON STRALICK LED THEM THROUGH STREETS WHERE THE city was beginning to wake and stretch. With the morning light, Lutetia was less sinister, more like its old self, but Aubrey saw the dispirited way that waiters set tables outside bistros. Window cleaners smeared glass and shrugged, moving on with long faces. Two police officers stood on a street corner, arguing. Even the dogs being taken for early morning walks were affected, whining and moping, reluctant to cross roads or romp in the parks.

Lutetia, the City of Troubles, Aubrey thought.

Von Stralick marched at a pace that made them weave between pedestrians on pavements that were growing more and more busy. Aubrey walked beside him, Caroline and George behind.

'Factions, Fitzwilliam,' von Stralick said as he skirted a market boy with a basket of artichokes and onions. 'I am much chagrined to tell you that the Holmland intelligence agencies are plagued by factions.'

'Go on.'

Aubrey watched as von Stralick weighed his words carefully. 'I am not the only operative at work here.'

'Holmland would be foolish to have only one agent in Lutetia.'

'True, much the same as Albion has multiple agents here.'

Aubrey kept his face impassive, but it was something he hadn't considered for some time. The Magisterium and the Special Service must have agents on the ground, but no-one had contacted him. Why not?

'A network. You have a network.'

'Yes.' He glanced at Aubrey. 'We have low level agents for surveillance and communication, and speciality agents for . . . other matters.'

Magicians, Aubrey thought, filling in the gap. Blackmailers. Assassins and saboteurs?

'For good security reasons,' von Stralick continued, 'I don't know the details. Names, numbers and so on.'

That was something Aubrey wasn't willing to accept immediately. 'Of course. What you don't know can't be prised out of you.'

'That is the theory my masters subscribe to.' Von Stralick scowled. 'And that is the root of my problem. Masters. In Holmland, our intelligence agencies attract a particular sort of person.'

'I understand. It's the same in Albion. In agencies where suspicion is the business, the most suspicious tend to rise to the top.' It was quite a challenge, keeping a conversation going while not saying anything significant. Aubrey thought he was doing well, but it was like tightrope-walking over the Pit of Doom. One false step . . .

'Just so. In Holmland, it has resulted in factions within our agencies. It is not helped by the fact that our government is also riven by factions.'

That was something Aubrey was unaware of. He mentally underlined it. 'Are you saying that you're not sure about your superior?'

'I receive orders from a number of people. Sometimes they conflict. Thus far, I have been able to play them off against each other, maintaining my reputation by getting important jobs done. But now I am finding this more difficult. The appearance of Muller and Schnagel surprised me and has emphasised that different factions have different agendas.' Von Stralick stopped. 'Follow me.'

He took them through the foyer of a shabby office building. He ignored the lift and instead led them to the stairs at the rear.

On the first-floor landing he paused, scanning the corridor in both directions before beckoning them on. He used a key to open the last door on the right, at the front of the building overlooking the street. He entered first and quickly ushered them inside.

It was a single room. Tattered wallpaper was the only feature apart from a wooden chair near the window and a telephone on the floor next to it. A thin young man with blond hair was sitting in the chair with a pair of binoculars in his hands. He stared at them, mouth open.

Von Stralick strode over and took him to the far corner of the room. They muttered together for a few minutes in Holmlandish, then the young man pushed past Aubrey and the others, out of the door, his head down, face averted.

Von Stralick was troubled.

'Observation post?' Caroline asked him.

He bowed again. 'You are perspicacious as well as beautiful.'

She rolled her eyes. 'And what is there to see around here?'

'Opposite is the photographic studio of one Monsieur Farentino. We have reason to believe he is the photographer who has stumbled on magical methods to steal people's souls.'

'Farentino?' George said. 'Not Gallian, then?'

'Farentino is what he calls himself at the moment. We have managed to trace his movements back for the last ten years or so, and he has resided in a number of countries, even spending some time in the Orient.'

The windows of the studio opposite were covered by wooden slat blinds except for one bare window, which opened onto the corridor outside the studio. 'Is he in there?'

'He met a businessman half an hour ago – a banker or accountant, from the description. No-one has come or gone since then.'

Aubrey felt a chill when he thought of the businessman's probable fate. A simple portrait sitting, it would begin as, but the horror that was waiting . . .

'We have him then.'

'We must hurry,' von Stralick said. 'Muller and Schnagel are on their way.'

'They are?' Caroline said. 'Your awareness of developments in Lutetia has certainly become more comprehensive.'

'Recent events took me unawares,' von Stralick said. 'I do not like being in such a way, so I have endeavoured to find out more.'

'By way of the Holmland agents in Lutetia,' Caroline said.

'Perhaps.' Von Stralick studied her for a moment. 'You are showing sudden interest in the workings of intelligence gathering.'

She smiled. 'It's a new hobby.'

'Farentino?' Aubrey prompted, intrigued as he was by Caroline's questioning. 'Muller and Schnagel?'

'I have made some discreet enquiries since our incident with the lion, and I have found out that, despite what I had been told, someone did give Muller and Schnagel orders to steal the Heart of Gold and bring it to Holmland. Communications were intercepted, between them and an unknown party.'

'Ah. So they weren't acting on their own.' Aubrey was sure that his father, the Foreign Office, the Magisterium, the Special Services, all would be extremely keen to hear that someone high up in Holmland was actively trying to bring on war – and that there were others who were opposed to such action.

'Precisely. Their plans are in jeopardy, however, because the Gallians have been unusually efficient in their blockade of the city. They are in hiding, but the waiting has proved too much for them. Impatient as they are, they have embarked on a new mission, to fill in time, as it were. Probably Muller, but perhaps Schnagel, has decided that the methods of this Soul Stealer would be a useful weapon in war. They have organised their cadre to find this madman and take him and his methods back to Holmland. They began by abducting photographers at random, but they've come into some information that has led them here. Now, this action was apparently not sanctioned by anyone in Holmland.'

George harrumphed. 'We thought you wanted this Soul Stealer.'

Von Stralick was pained. 'Please give Holmland some credit. Not all of us are fools, despite what your popular press says.' He sighed. 'Some things are not to be countenanced. Stealing souls as a method of warfare? No. It would not be right.'

'Whereas blowing millions of people to pieces with bombs would be acceptable?' Caroline asked.

The Holmlander spread his hands. 'Can one fight a war and still be civilised? I don't know. But I do not feel that putting soul stealing into the hands of generals is a good idea, when they have so much already, as you point out.'

More to keep von Stralick off balance than anything else, Aubrey asked, 'And what do you hope to gain by frustrating the efforts of your countrymen?'

'Ah, motive. You Albionites are always interested in delving behind actions to find what lies beneath.' Von Stralick chuckled. 'Would you be surprised if I told you that self-interest is my motive here?'

'Hardly. Self-interest is the primary motivation for most actions.'

'You see?' von Stralick grinned. 'I am so obvious, not devious at all. If Muller and Schnagel's superior suffers a setback, then my superiors are advanced. When their fortunes rise, mine do too. Simple.'

If you're that straightforward, I'll walk backwards to the North Pole. 'And you need my magic to help you?' Aubrey said.

'Farentino has powerful sorcery, while I have access to none.'

'And once we have him,' Caroline said, 'he'll be handed to the Gallian authorities?'

'Of course.'

AS HE APPROACHED THE DOOR TO FARENTINO'S STUDIO, Aubrey felt the drone of magic. It was a mixture of raw, unfocused power and sharply organised spells; to a magician, it was like feeling the hum of heavy machinery under the ground.

Von Stralick nodded at the door, keeping his silence. Aubrey motioned the others back behind him.

He worked quickly. He crouched and carefully placed a hand on the surface of the door. His magical awareness told him that Farentino had done a good job. Magical wards were not just present on the door to the studio, but the walls, ceiling and floor were also reinforced. A veritable magical meshwork enveloped the studio, dormant but ready to react if the place was in danger of being breached. The whole lattice was overlaid with a recognition spell: the door would recognise Farentino and admit him, but anyone else attempting to enter would be in for a surprise.

Aubrey probed gently, then drew back and stood. He wiped his hands together.

The meshwork sizzled with energy, a crude but powerful adaptation of the Law of Reaction. For every magical action there would be an opposite – but unequal – reaction. Farentino had managed to increase the reaction factor by two, so that any assault would rebound, doubled.

Of course, any competent magician would know this and make allowances, probably using an inertial deadening spell to catch and neutralise the reaction. Aubrey hummed a little, and glanced at von Stralick. The Holmlander took out his pocket watch and tapped it meaningfully.

Something simple, then, Aubrey thought.

He remembered when he last was faced with a magically guarded door. At Banford Park, Albion's magical research facility taken over by the renegade magician Dr Tremaine, Aubrey had to gain access through doors which the Sorcerer Royal had warded with complex spells – but he'd also overlaid them with a recognition spell, for convenience.

He led the others to the far end of the corridor, by the window overlooking the street. A butcher's cart rumbled past, but Aubrey's attention was taken by a grey-suited man standing in front of a shoe shop opposite. He was reading a guidebook, which shouldn't have been unusual in Lutetia, except that they were in a decidedly uninteresting part of the city.

'Do you know that man, von Stralick?' he whispered.

Von Stralick looked out of the window. 'No. He is not one of ours. And not one of those working for Muller and Schnagel either. Why?'

'I thought I recognised him. I must have been mistaken.' Aubrey tried to memorise his face and he filed it away under 'For Later Consideration', a category that was bulging.

He moved away from the window. 'I'm going to cast a spell,' he whispered to the others. 'Afterwards, I need you to tell me what I look like.'

Both Caroline and George nodded. Von Stralick was puzzled, but shrugged.

Aubrey summoned the memory of his confrontation with the Soul Stealer. Keeping the man's face firmly in mind, he cast the spell.

'Rough-looking fellow,' George whispered.

Von Stralick was impressed. 'So you only saw Farentino for a moment, but you can adopt his appearance? You have formidable skills, Fitzwilliam.'

Aubrey would have preferred it if von Stralick had a low opinion of his powers, but it was too late to worry about that. Wearing the appearance of the Soul Stealer, he walked to the door of Farentino's studio and presented himself.

The defensive meshwork melted away.

Carefully, probing for any secondary spells, he tried the door and found it was locked. He'd barely turned to Caroline when she nodded and extracted her hair pins from her waist band. While von Stralick's eyes widened, she slipped the pins into the lock and had the door open in seconds. With George close behind, Aubrey entered the studio.

The room smelled heavily of chemicals, with the acrid tang of flash powder cutting through a complex medley of harsh odours. A small stage was set up at the end of the room, with folds of white linen drapery hanging from the ceiling as a neutral backdrop. Standing on the stage, astonished, was Farentino, the Soul Stealer.

'How did you get in here?' he said. He had a large brown flask cradled in one arm. 'Have you been sent to help me in my quest?'

Aubrey could sense Caroline easing along the wall to his left, while George and von Stralick moved to his right. He nodded, and smiled. He spread his hands and did his best to appear harmless. 'And what quest would that be?'

Farentino glared, his prominent eyebrows thrusting forward. 'To save the world, of course.'

Keep him talking, Aubrey told himself. Keep his attention. The others were inching themselves into the room, trying to appear as if they were studying the ceiling. 'Saving the world? And how are you doing that?'

'By saving every single soul from corruption,' Farentino said. He shook his head, jerkily, as if bothered by an invisible bee. 'No, it's not the world I'm saving. That's not right. Much more important, the souls are.'

Aubrey couldn't help but agree about the importance of souls. 'That's right then. We're here to help you.'

'I was told I'd have help. He promised. It's been difficult, all alone.'

Aubrey took a step. 'I'm sure it has.'

Farentino blinked, as if seeing Aubrey for the first time. 'You look like me.'

'Ah. Yes. That is –'

The Soul Stealer's head whipped from side to side. He gaped at George and von Stralick, who'd made their way halfway along the wall. 'Stop, you two. And you.' He stabbed a finger at Caroline, who'd made similar progress.

'It's all right,' Aubrey said. 'We want to help.'

'You're here to stop me,' Farentino said, with something like wonder. He looked at the bottle cradled in the crook of his arm. 'I can't allow that.'

With a grunt, Farentino heaved the flask. As it tumbled to the floor, he muttered a series of quick syllables. When it smashed, a wall of green smoke sprang up, filling the whole room with a dense cloud.

Aubrey started forward, as did George. Von Stralick went for the window and flung it open. 'He's vanished!' George cried.

Caroline reached the stage. She batted away the curling billows of smoke. 'He's gone. But not vanished.'

Aubrey joined her. When she held apart the folds of the backdrop, he saw a door, ajar. 'He went through here,' she said.

Aubrey rushed through the door and found he was in a dim store room. Through the feeble light from a single window, he saw that the room was full of wooden filing cabinets, many with drawers standing open listlessly, documents spilling to the floor. Rolled-up maps or charts stood in one corner, festooned with spiders' webs. The place smelled of dust, mould and neglect.

'The window,' George said over Aubrey's shoulder.

Footprints in the dust showed Farentino's passage through the maze of cabinets. Aubrey hurried to the window. A clattering from above made him look up.

'Fire escape,' he shouted. 'He's heading for the roof.' Aubrey leapt out of the window. He started up the stairs just as Farentino disappeared onto the roof, three storeys further up.

Aubrey surged up the fire escape, full of energy. At each landing, where the stairs switched back the other way, he saw that George, Caroline and von Stralick were close behind.

He reached the roof and heaved himself over the low parapet. Twenty yards away, standing right on the edge of the building, Farentino was wild-eyed with dismay.

'Stop!' Aubrey called, but Farentino shook his head. Before Aubrey could move, the Soul Stealer barked a spell, a torrent of syllables that were bitter and flat, hurtful to the ear. Frantically, he reached up, as if he were seizing a dangling rope. Then, with a jerk of his shoulders, he pulled.

Aubrey stared. Overhead, the sky was a mass of low cloud. As Farentino pulled, a dark-grey mass detached itself. It drifted lower, then part of its substance began to stretch. Quickly, it became a tendril, extending toward Farentino's desperate movements, a rope of cloud stuff.

Aubrey sprinted toward the Soul Stealer, but it was too late. The cloud rope reached Farentino's outstretched, imploring hand. He grabbed hold, then seized more cloud stuff with his other hand. With a wordless cry, he swung off the roof, kicking and spinning.

Aubrey reached the parapet. He heard voices and footsteps behind him, but he had eyes only for Farentino. The Soul Stealer swung like a pendulum, dangling under the cloud that sagged with his weight, even as it drifted toward the river. Back and forth he went, his initial clumsiness sending him spinning through each arc.

'Extraordinary,' von Stralick said, panting. He leaned against the stone.

'I think he's in trouble,' Aubrey said softly.

Farentino's swinging motion had diminished. He bobbed underneath the cloud as it wafted away from them. It was almost halfway across the river, but it was thinning and losing its volume with each second.

Aubrey gripped the parapet so hard it hurt. Farentino was panicking. His legs were jerking as if he were trying to drag himself up the cloud rope. He was at least a hundred feet above the river and Aubrey tensed with each shudder of the cloud.

I'm cheering for him, Aubrey thought. He didn't know if it was the simple audacity of the magic Farentino had wrought with the cloud, or plain soft-heartedness, but Aubrey didn't want the man to plunge to his death.

When the cloud rope snapped, it was all Aubrey could do not to look away.

Farentino fell without a sound. He crossed his arms over his chest, dropping feet first to the unnatural embrace of the gelid river below.

He struck with a horrible, wet sound and disappeared immediately, the river rolling slowly inwards to cover the hole he made. Soon, the surface was whole again, with no sign of Farentino's demise.

'He is ended,' von Stralick said. 'I'm glad.'

Aubrey couldn't bring himself to feel any satisfaction. 'Let's see what he left in his studio.'

ANOTHER DOOR OPENED OFF THE STUDIO, A FEW YARDS away from the one hidden behind the drapery. Standing in front of it, Aubrey realised he was still wearing the appearance of Farentino. He shivered, and quickly cast the reversal spell.

'Another store room?' George suggested.

'We shall find out,' von Stralick said.

Aubrey detected an undertone of magic coming from behind the door. It was harsh, grating magic, familiar and unsettling; it set Aubrey's teeth on edge. 'Stop. Let me go first.'

No-one argued.

It was a long, narrow room, dimly lit from a few narrow windows. It took Aubrey's eyes a moment to adjust, but what he finally saw made him feel sick.

Ceiling to floor racks lined both sides of the room. They were full of people.

'Good Lord,' George breathed as he stared over Aubrey's shoulder. 'There must be dozens here.'

'Are they still alive?' von Stralick asked.

'Yes,' Aubrey said through a constricted throat. 'He's managed to find a way to make them immobile.'

Numb, Aubrey moved through the narrow space between the racks. Men, women, children. Old and young. All in their best clothes, some richer, some poorer. Farentino had been even-handed in his harvesting of victims. Barely breathing, they were caught in a hell of a madman's devising. Aubrey had to reach out and steady himself against one of the racks, so appalled was he by the enormity of Farentino's deed.

At the end of the room, he paused before turning. Just inside the door, Caroline stood, her face pale. 'The poor, poor people,' she whispered. 'Can't we do anything for them?'

Aubrey shook his head. He needed more time to refine the crude method he'd used on Bernard. 'They're not lost. Not yet.'

'But they're not here, either.' She shuddered. 'What a nightmare.'

Aubrey could hardly look at them. 'We'll do what we can for them.'

Caroline's face hardened. 'We must stop this man.'

'Yes.' Their eyes met. He saw her rage, her determination and he was united in purpose with her. 'We will.'

Eighteen

MRS HEPWORTH STRETCHED OUT ON THE DIVAN. 'So you're a Holmland spy?' she said to von Stralick, who was perched on the edge of one of the armchairs. He had a cup of tea in his lap and he was stirring it vigorously, despite not taking any sugar. 'Tell me more. I haven't met a Holmland spy before.'

'That you know about,' George pointed out. 'Clever chaps, spies. Some of them.'

She smiled, radiantly. 'Quite right, George. We've had any number of Holmlanders through our artistic salons back in Albion. And while I've been here in Lutetia . . . Well. It's enough to say that Holmlanders have been dying for an invitation to our circle.'

It gave Aubrey great pleasure to see von Stralick goggle-eyed. He was pleased he wasn't the only one to be disarmed by a Hepworth female.

'Of course any Holmlander would be eager to be in your presence, Mrs Hepworth,' von Stralick managed, which Aubrey thought quite good going.

'Ophelia, please.'

'Ah. Of course. Ophelia.'

On the other side of the room, sitting in a wicker armchair next to a vase of blue irises, Caroline hid her amusement behind a hand for a moment before becoming serious. 'Now, Aubrey, what did Inspector Paul say when you rang him?'

'He was grateful to know about Farentino's lair, and he promised to take good care of the unfortunates we found.' He shuddered at the memory, and then wondered if he should have told Inspector Paul about how he'd managed to restore Bernard's soul. He shook his head as the old music hall joke came to him: 'The operation was a success, but the patient died.' Aubrey wanted to do some more research before he tried his rough and ready method of soul restoration again.

Caroline studied him carefully. He let her. 'You don't like relying on other people, do you?'

'I don't mind. I just prefer to do things myself. It's more . . .'

'Dependable?'

'Predictable.'

'I see.' She sat back and crossed her arms. 'I have an invitation to the embassy ball, you know.'

The change of subject was so abrupt that Aubrey thought he heard a screeching noise as they switched conversational tracks. 'You do?'

'I thought you should know. Your mother sent me one, knowing how I feel about such matters. Pining away, waiting to be invited? What an antiquated attitude.'

'Of course,' he said, and was pleased at such an innocuous response. He thought he was coping well after such a surprising announcement. 'Terribly old-fashioned, that sort of thing.'

'Good.' Caroline sat back. 'I'm glad you agree.'

Von Stralick caught Aubrey's eye. 'Your police officer friend is apprised now?'

Aubrey dragged his attention back to weightier matters. 'Yes. He's having trouble of his own, though. With factions.'

'So I am not alone? Good.' Von Stralick stood and bowed first to Mrs Hepworth, then to Caroline. 'I must go. I am glad we are united in this affair.'

'Working together, I'd say,' said Aubrey, 'rather than united.'

'It's a practical arrangement,' George added.

Von Stralick stared at George, then nodded. 'It will suffice. Please, I can see myself out.'

Mrs Hepworth watched him go. 'Charming, if a bit stiff. But then again, he is a Holmlander.'

'Mother,' Caroline huffed.

'I know, darling, I'm bandying about a stereotype. Still . . .'

WHEN AUBREY AND GEORGE WOKE FROM A PRECIOUS FEW hours' sleep, Madame Calvert was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. Despite her efforts to disguise it, she looked impressed. 'This came for you, early.'

She handed Aubrey a heavy, cream envelope. It had Prince Albert's seal on it.

'Thank you, Madame,' Aubrey said.

She didn't move away.

'Er. Is there any chance of a late breakfast?' he asked.

'Any of those delicious chocolate whatnots?' George added.

'Do you know Prince Albert?' Madame Calvert asked Aubrey.

Aubrey struggled with a number of possible replies before deciding on the simplest. 'Yes.'

'They're related,' George said, 'and Aubrey saved his life a while ago.'

Madame Calvert tapped her cheek with an elegant finger and studied Aubrey for a moment. 'In Gallia, we have no kings any more. Not since the revolution. It is held to be a good thing.'

I think we have a closet royalist here, Aubrey thought. 'Gallia has thrived as a republic.'

'Despite being a republic,' Madame Calvert said. 'Look at those in charge at the moment. Incompetents, buffoons and criminals.'

'That's a bit harsh,' George said. 'I mean, buffoons?'

'Two ministers resigned yesterday, both exposed as being corrupt. The government is hanging on by a thread.' She sighed. 'No stability. No continuity.'

'I see,' Aubrey said, fascinated. He tapped the envelope with his forefinger. 'Are there many who think like you?'

'Think like me? Clearly, with a notion of history and what it means to be Gallian?'

'Something like that.'

'Some. Quite a few.'

'Thank you, Madame. You've been most helpful.'

Aubrey swept toward the breakfast room with George in tow.

'What was that all about?' George muttered once they were seated. He spread a perfectly starched napkin on his lap.

'Royalists, George. Even though it's been two hundred years since they cut off the head of their last king, there are still quite a few in Gallia who would like to see a return to a monarchy.'

'How can they when they dispatched their last one so irretrievably?' George took a roll from the basket on the table.

'Relatives, George, line of succession. Given half a chance, they'll dig out some long-lost cousin, Count of this or that, Baron someone-or-other, pop a fancy hat on him and shove him on the throne.'

'Solemn stuff, this kingship business.' George broke the roll in half and devoured it in two bites.

'That's what Bertie says too.' Aubrey slit open the envelope.

Aubrey read the letter carefully, then sat back. He studied George, who was enjoying a pastry. 'Aren't you going to ask me what the letter says?'

'No need, old man. You'll tell me when you're ready.'

'Hmm.' Aubrey took a roll from the basket. He buttered it and then added some strawberry jam. 'Have you ever been nagged by an heir to the throne of a major country, George?'

'I'll take that as a rather obvious rhetorical question.' George poured himself a hot chocolate. 'The Prince is looking for some results of our investigations?'

Aubrey folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. 'In the politest way. After hoping that I'm enjoying my holiday, and telling me of the extra work he's had to take on since the King's latest bad turn.'

'Ah. Which would made him even more conscious of his family's . . . indisposition.'

'Precisely.'

Aubrey applied himself to his breakfast with an appetite that he found most satisfying.

As he was finishing, Madame Calvert entered the room. She stood with her hands clasped. 'A young lady has called for you. Unchaperoned.'

Aubrey leapt to his feet. 'Miss Hepworth?'

'She's waiting in the parlour.' Madame Calvert paused. 'She seems a self-possessed young lady.'

'Yes. Well. She's Ophelia Hepworth's daughter.'

Madame Calvert looked impressed. 'Oh. Of course.' She smiled and her disapproval vanished. 'I didn't realise the Hepworths were in Lutetia.'

'Just Mrs Hepworth and her daughter. Professor Hepworth passed away recently.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.' She studied her hands for a moment. 'I was fortunate to be at Ophelia Hepworth's last exhibition. Tell me, is she painting at the moment?'

'I believe so. She's accompanying her daughter while she studies at the university.' As soon as I can sort that one out, Aubrey added to himself.

'Young Miss Hepworth is studying art, I presume?'

'Taxonomy.'

Madame Calvert shook her head, but she was smiling as she did. 'An unconventional family. In the best sense.'

'She's in the parlour?'

CAROLINE WAS SITTING ON A BENCH IN THE WINDOW. Aubrey paused a moment in the doorway, admiring the way the morning sun illuminated the hair that escaped her no doubt stylish bonnet.

She saw him. 'Aubrey.'

'Caroline. Good morning.' He decided to try gallantry. 'I like the colour of your jacket. Peach. Or apricot. Something fruity. Melon?'

She glanced down. 'I'd call it pink.'

'That was my next guess.' He sat in a high-backed cane chair opposite the window seat. 'What can I do for you?'

She shook her head. 'I want to know what I can do for you.'

'That's rather an open question . . .' he began, but she dismissed such frivolity with a glance. 'I'm not sure what you mean.'

'The Heart of Gold. We must find it.'

He studied her for a moment, which was an exercise he found extremely pleasing. 'You're enjoying this, aren't you?'

She made a quick flipping gesture that wasn't quite a denial. 'Lives are at stake.'

'True, but it's exhilarating, isn't it? The danger, the risk, daring to do great deeds.'

'That's how you feel, is it?'

He smiled wryly. 'My mother warned me about being a hero. She says it becomes addictive.'

Caroline stood. Aubrey was immediately on his feet. 'I understand what she means,' she said. 'But I simply came to offer my help. I feel you and George have a greater chance of success if I'm with you.'

Aubrey noted her evasions and decided that she did enjoy the thrill. She was an adventurer at heart, which meant she appealed to him even more.

He felt a twinge at his manipulation of her time in Lutetia, but he assured himself it would be all right in the end and everyone would understand. Or they may not even know about it, he thought, if I can do some very quick manoeuvring . . .

'George and I will meet you here in ten minutes,' he said. He wanted to make sure he was prepared. He decided a jacket with many pockets would be best.

'Where are we going?'

'On an adventure.'

THEY STOOD IN CONSCIENTIOUSNESS STREET, JUST OUTSIDE the university. The sky was brooding, as if it were about to rain but were holding off for the most inconvenient time possible.

Aubrey pointed. 'The Faculty of Magic. We can use the tower to track the Heart of Gold.' He told Caroline about the sensitivity of the old building.

'You'll need another brick,' George pointed out. 'And a map.'

'Let's go and see Maurice.'

Maurice took some time to answer their banging at the door. When he did, he listened to their request uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other. 'No,' he said when Aubrey finished. 'I cannot allow it.'

'Come now, old chap,' George said. 'Just one brick. It won't hurt.'

'You don't know this place like I do.' He beat at his chest with the flat of one hand, to emphasise his point. 'There's been strange smells and sounds coming from Professor Castillon's rooms after I took that last brick. I had to board up the door, but that didn't stop the whimpering.' He looked over his shoulder. 'The place wasn't happy.'

'We understand,' Aubrey said. 'But this is important.'

'So you say. But so is this place, for me, even if most people have forgotten it.' He shook his head. 'I wish you luck.'

He closed the heavy door. The sound of a bolt sliding home confirmed that he wasn't interested in further discussion.

Aubrey shrugged. 'A dead end, I fear.'

'Surely not, old man,' George protested. 'A bit of magic, get this door unbolted, then we can tie him up and choose a brick. Simple.'

'I think not. Apart from the rights and wrongs of such action, I'm not sure old Maurice is as helpless as he looks.' He slapped the wall. 'He's been in this place for a long time. If magic soaked into the bricks, I wonder what Maurice has absorbed?'

'Then how are we going to find the Heart of Gold?' Caroline asked.

Aubrey patted his pocket. 'These fragments have lost most of their potency, but if we can get somewhere close to the Heart, they might show us exactly where it is.'

George brightened. 'Don't forget the wolf. If we hear it again tonight, I'm sure we can track it down, which might bring us near enough.'

'Good idea.' Aubrey hummed a little. 'Until then, let's do some work for Bertie. He's asked me to look at the Church of the Innocents.'

'Really?' Caroline tilted her head. 'Are you sure that's the most pressing item on your list?'

'Hardly. But it will give us an excuse to move through the city. Lacking any better method, we might simply be fortunate and blunder close to the Heart of Gold. I'll feel the brick fragments stirring if we do.'

LUTETIA WAS DOING ITS BEST TO APPEAR NORMAL, BUT ITS efforts seemed tired and desultory. Even the colours on the striped awnings of the cafés were muted and dull. Aubrey thought the scent of corruption was stronger, rising from the stones beneath their feet. As they went, he noted more blocked drains and eruptions of rubbish, almost as if the city were trying to purge itself.

The doomsayers had grown beyond print. While the crude posters still proliferated, street corners were now hosting wild-eyed speechmakers. From atop wooden fruit boxes, each harangued wide-eyed passers-by with a different horror waiting in store for Lutetia: plague, rains of blood, famine, flood and – Aubrey's worst nightmare – hosts of serpents.

They crossed the Meron Bridge, heading toward the Bankside district. Nothing was moving on the river. Boats, large and small, were mired in the thick, grey slop that it had become.

Aubrey stepped back from craning over the bridge, trying to get a better view of the expanse of the river. A bicycle bell rang. 'Look out, old man!' George cried and grabbed his arm, saving him from being run over.

The bicycle rattled to a stop. It was an ancient machine with a cloth-covered basket hanging from the handlebars. It was ridden by a small boy, barely large enough to reach the pedals and certainly too small to remain on the seat. He was dirty-faced and wore a sock hat that had once been red.

He frowned at Aubrey, studying his every feature, then – obviously satisfied he had the right person – dug in the pocket of his ragged trousers. Aubrey noticed he wore wooden shoes.

The urchin thrust a scrap of paper into Aubrey's hand and then mounted the bicycle. He wobbled off, picking up speed and disappearing into the streets of Bankside.

'It's from von Stralick,' Aubrey said after he'd scanned the paper. 'He says to meet him at the intersection of Kellerman Street and the road to Amelie at noon.'

'As if we're at his beck and call,' George muttered.

'He says he may have news of the artefact we're seeking.'

IT TOOK SOME TIME TO FIND THE CHURCH OF THE Innocents. They'd twice circled the massive collection of Gothic buildings that was the Ministry for Taxation before George called a stop. 'You said it was around here, old man. Where?'

'Bertie said it was near the Ministry of Taxation, that was all. I think he assumed I'd visited it.'

'I hope it hasn't disappeared like the Revolutionary Monument.'

'If it had, we'd see it boarded up, wouldn't we?'

Caroline reached into her bag with a look of exasperation.' I thought you knew where you were going. Here.'

She handed him a slim, green-bound book. 'The Green Guide to Lutetia for Visitors,' he read.

'Mother helped to write some of the sections. It's very good.'

'Naturally.'

Aubrey leafed to the appropriate page after finding the Church of the Innocents in the index. He lifted his head and stared at the Ministry of Taxation. 'It's in there.'

George snorted. 'A church in a government complex?'

'It says that this conglomeration began as a palace. King Pepin built the church as part of it. The complex grew over the years and swallowed the church.'

'Is it open to the public?' Caroline asked.

'It's supposed to be.' Aubrey eyed the guards standing at the iron gate leading into the depths of the bureaucracy.' But with the unrest . . . Let's see.'

The guards were surly when Aubrey and George approached, but brightened when they realised there was a beautiful young woman with them. Then they made a great show of allowing them in and even had a heated argument over who was going to accompany them through the maze of buildings.

The Church of the Innocents was dwarfed by the surrounding offices. It was a blocky, solid stone construction, more modest than Aubrey would have expected for a king's private place of worship. When he drew near he saw its age – thick walls, narrow windows, and a squat belltower. It was small, but it still had the traditional cross-shaped layout. When they entered the still, cool interior, they found they were alone, apart from a young priest. He pointed the way to the crypt.

Aubrey stood under a lantern that hung from the low ceiling. The crypt stretched into the shadowy distance, full not just with the tombs of kings, but the families of the monarchs – sons, daughters, wives, brothers, sisters, cousins.

The crypt was well-tended, with no cobwebs or dust. It had a dry, almost herbal smell, quite unlike the damp mustiness Aubrey usually associated with underground chambers.

The tombs were simple marble boxes, with lids carved into effigies of the deceased. The men were all clad in armour, with a sword resting on their chests, often with a shield bearing the owner's coat of arms. The women were dressed in robes of richness that even the years could not obscure.

Aubrey was struck by the simplicity of the tombs. These weren't gaudy monuments to the pride of the living. They were dignified, solemn resting places. No statues, pillars, angels or prophets to watch over the dead. They were not needed.

It was a serene place and Aubrey felt at ease. Here, death was undeniable, thus unremarkable. It was the natural closing of a life – a world away from the horror that the Soul Stealer wrought.

'What are we looking for, old man?' George asked in a low voice.

Aubrey held Bertie's letter up to the light. 'Prince Christian's tomb, if it exists. He was some sort of cousin to Stephen III. I remember reading about him.'

'Cousin,' Caroline murmured. 'Isn't that a euphemism for "illegitimate child"?'

'Ah, Bertie hasn't made that clear,' Aubrey said. 'But he's asked us to look for special features on the tomb.'

'Special features,' George said. 'That's a bit mysterious, isn't it?'

'The letter was rather guarded.' Which probably means Bertie thinks this matter is important, Aubrey thought.

They separated. Aubrey moved along the left-hand wall. In places, tombs had been set into the stone, hollowed-out cavities holding the coffins. Names were inscribed on brass plaques or carved on the sides of the tombs. The plaques were bright and free of verdigris, a further sign of the care that had been taken by the guardian priests.

'I've found him.' Caroline's voice came clear and steadfast from the far corner of the crypt.

The effigy on top of the tomb was worn and indistinct, but it was still recognisable as a warrior in chain mail, long sword by his side, feet crossed and resting against a small chest. If it weren't for the brass plaque, the tomb would have been indistinguishable from the others in this oldest part of the crypt.

'Prince Christian,' George read. He scratched his cheek. 'He doesn't look like Prince Albert. Are you sure he's a relative?'

'It'd be difficult for him to look like anyone, with the features worn like that,' Aubrey said. 'Bertie says that his research insists that this Prince Christian is his direct ancestor.'

'And he went mad?'

Aubrey winced. 'I wouldn't put it as bluntly as that, but he was reputed to be feebleminded, or prone to irrational rages, or both. Bertie says that Christian was locked away in a tower when he was only twenty-two, at a monastery in Fremont. Died there a forgotten man, apparently.'

'At the age of ninety-four,' Caroline pointed out. 'A respectable age for those times.'

'For any time.' Aubrey squinted at the plaque. 'Ninetyfour? All the books say he died not long after being locked up. Hmm.'

'He would have seen so much, living for ninety years in the fourteenth century,' George said. 'Well, he would have if he hadn't spent most of it locked up.'

'True. Wars, invasions, the Plague. His father defeated us, you know, at the Battle of Ballan. Took most of our Gallian territories before he was killed the next year at the siege of Tigre.'

Caroline made a peculiar noise.

'What is it?' Aubrey asked her. 'Are you all right?'

She didn't answer the question. 'Who succeeded Stephen III?'

Aubrey rummaged his memory. 'His son, I think. Paul II.'

'Who died soon after, mysteriously.'

Aubrey shrugged. 'Well, the only mysterious thing about it was the exact nature of the poison. And who among the hundreds of potential suspects was the actual killer. He was a bad king.'

'So who succeeded him?'

Aubrey tried to remember. The fourteenth century was a particularly muddy time in Gallia, with a great deal of back-stabbing, false alliances and betrayals. Like most of Gallian history, he thought, only more so.

'One of his brothers,' George said. 'Theodore. That's the one.' He caught Aubrey's look. 'I haven't been wasting my time, you know. I picked up a few things while traipsing around those churches. Quite interesting, all this stuff.'

'Theodore,' Caroline repeated. 'The same Theodore who died in the Battle of St Hugo?'

'Yes,' George said.

Aubrey was intrigued. Caroline's eyes were bright and excited in the lantern light.

'All of this was in the time they called the Year of the Four Kings, wasn't it?'

'You seem to know your history pretty well,' George said.

'History is important,' she said.

'The Year of Four Kings ended when Stephen's brother Armand took the throne, uniting the insanely arguing family factions,' Aubrey put in, not wanting to be left out. 'He ruled for ten years, and spent most of it getting soundly beaten by Albion but not dying in the process, unlike many of his predecessors.'

Caroline waved a finger. 'A further question. What if Christian weren't illegitimate?'

'Well, that'd mean that he was robbed of the throne by his uncle Armand. Gallia was probably better off, given that Christian wasn't in the best state to lead the country.'

'True, but look closely.' Caroline took Aubrey's arm in a fierce grip. 'Prince Albert says he's the direct descendent of Prince Christian on his mother's side. If Christian was the rightful king of Gallia, then our Crown Prince is the heir to the throne of Gallia.'

Aubrey made a strangled noise before he found his words again. 'What did you say?'

'King Albert,' George said. 'Monarch of Albion and Gallia. Sounds good, wouldn't you say?'

Aubrey's mind whirled. The political situation on the Continent was precarious enough without a bombshell like this. 'No. This can't be true. It would have been raised before now.'

Caroline shook her head. 'Only if it were known. So what if the Prince just found some new evidence to suggest Christian was a truly recognised son of Stephen?'

'Bertie is a deep one,' Aubrey admitted. 'He keeps his motives to himself, but I don't believe our genealogical search was just a ruse.'

'I'm not saying that. I'm guessing that he's only come across this recently, after sending you looking for his ancestors.'

'Proof.'

They both looked at George. 'Proof,' he repeated. 'All this is no good without some sort of evidence.'

In the excitement, Aubrey had crumpled Bertie's letter. He smoothed it on his leg. 'Special features. The tomb. Special features. The tomb.'

'Aubrey,' Caroline said sternly. 'Gibberish.'

He looked up. 'I think Bertie wants us to bring back something from the tomb.'

George grimaced. 'He wants us to turn grave-robbers?'

Aubrey read the letter again. He placed a hand on the marble. 'No, we don't have to open the coffin. I think Bertie's veiled instructions point somewhere else.'

'Another code, old man?' George asked.

Aubrey studied the tomb. 'No. Just Bertie's execrable fondness for puns. At the end of the letter, after he asks me to find Prince Christian's tomb, he adds a post script. "I want you to look for some support for the family tree." It's underlined, just in case I was feeling more than usually obtuse.'

'The Crown Prince enjoys puns?' George's brow wrinkled as he tried to come to terms with this notion.

'He's an ordinary sort of fellow in lots of ways, George. He still puts his trousers on right way up, just like you and me.'

'I see.'

'Did you know that Christian never went to battle in his life?' Aubrey continued. 'All this armour is a sham for him. Even this chest at his feet.' He reached out and tapped it. 'Just the sort of thing a knight would bring back from a busy time looting and such, full of riches. Christian, of course, did no such thing.'

'I'm sure this is leading up to something,' George said.

'I think I have it,' Caroline said. 'What's another word for chest?'

George shrugged. 'I'm happy to play my part. Another word for chest? What about box, container, trunk –'

'Trunk will do. And how did Prince Albert put it, Aubrey? "Support for the family tree"?'

'Precisely.'

'So what supports a tree?'

George held up a hand. 'Please, Miss: a trunk!'

'So there you have it.' Caroline put her hand on the small marble box. 'Perhaps this isn't just ornamentation.'

Aubrey nodded. 'Let's see what we can see.'

Caroline tapped at the base of the chest.

Aubrey joined her, running his hand along its carved sides, feeling the smooth marble. It had a rolled edge, semi-circular in profile. Alternating lozenges and diamond shapes decorated its sides and a large, flowerlike rosette had a prominent position in the middle of each face.

Caroline shook her head. 'I can't hear anything.'

'I should hope not,' said George. He shuddered. 'Is anyone else cold?'

Aubrey peered at one of the rosettes. Was there a crack around it? 'I think –' He pushed at it – unsuccessfully – then pushed and twisted. He heard a click. The rosette depressed, then released, and a drawer slid out of the base of the chest.

The body of the drawer was made of copper and lying in it was a sheaf of documents. A dry, spicy smell came from them, a mixture of dust and cinnamon.

Aubrey lifted the documents. He screwed up his face at the dust, and gently shook them.

'Heavy paper,' George said.

'Not paper, vellum,' Aubrey said. 'Fine animal skin. Durable and beautiful. Used for the most important records.'

'Such as a Deed of Recognition?' Caroline suggested, looking over his shoulder.

Aubrey studied the document that lay on top of the bundle. It was written in Latin, but the purple splash of a royal seal at the bottom was unmistakeable, even if faded. 'I'd say so.' He stared at the tomb. 'Bertie, you are a deep one.'

He closed the drawer and felt it click shut. Then he lifted his head. He'd felt a tickle, an insubstantial caress on his nerves. 'Ah.'

Caroline straightened. 'What is it?'

'Magic.'

George glanced from side to side. 'Where?'

'I'm not sure.' Aubrey could feel it, thick and deep. 'It seems to be coming from all directions.'

'The church,' Caroline said. 'It's fading.'

Even in the dim light thrown by the lantern, the stones of the crypt were growing insubstantial enough to show the earth that lay behind them. It would be madness to be trapped in the place. 'You're right. We must get out of here.'

Caroline led the way. They hurried through the tombs and monuments, footsteps echoing. They rushed up the stairs and almost knocked over the startled priest.

'Father,' Aubrey said, in Gallian. 'Everyone must leave the church. Immediately.'

'I'm the only one here,' the bewildered cleric replied, in Albionish. 'I must tend the church.'

Aubrey blinked. For an instant, the whole church wavered, rippling like a pond in the wind. Then, the walls began to fade.

George took the priest's arm. 'If you're the only one here, no-one's going to miss you.' He bundled the protesting priest toward the door, with Aubrey and Caroline close behind.

Standing on the courtyard outside the church, surrounded by the passionless edifice of the Taxation offices, they stared as the solid stone of the church continued to grow more ghostly. In the midday sun, such a thing seemed unlikely, a trick of the light, but when Aubrey could see through the walls, making out the shapes of buildings behind it, the reality of the phenomenon was undeniable.

'The government can't keep this sort of thing secret forever,' Caroline said.

'I'm surprised they've managed to suppress it this long,' Aubrey said.

'And what will the people say when they realise their cherished landmarks are vanishing?' George asked. The priest, standing next to him, gaped.

'Prime Minister Giraud will be hard pressed to hold onto power, I'd say. And if the government collapses here, I know one country that would be very, very pleased.'

Aubrey looked at the fading church, then at the ancient document in his hands, another item that would shake the status quo.

If it ever came to light.

'LOOKS RATHER ODD, OLD MAN,' GEORGE SAID OVER A CUP of coffee, 'your poring over dusty old relics in a place like this. That sort of thing would be more at home in a museum, I'd say.'

The café fronted onto the small square between the Taxation offices and the river. In the centre of the square was a fountain. A startled-looking goat spouted water through its mouth while balanced on its back legs. Aubrey was impressed by the sculptor's skill and puzzled by his imagination.

Aubrey sighed. Caroline was sitting close, brow furrowed as she studied the precious text. 'This will do, George. It's all we have at the moment.'

'Don't mind me, old man.' The large slice of cherry tart George bit into showed why he was happy with the venue.

Aubrey was fascinated. For a formal medieval document, the Deed of Recognition was direct and simple. Most of it was taken up with the titles of both Stephen III and Christian, a good two-thirds of the page detailing exactly which province, district and demesne belonged to each. The actual recognition was blunt, direct and inarguable, which, Aubrey decided, is exactly what the old warrior Stephen must have had in mind. It made it clear that Stephen had married Christian's mother after the death of his first wife, Clothilde, and the document was a binding regal declaration of Christian's change of status from illegitimacy to legitimacy. Of course, Aubrey decided, Stephen wasn't to know that Christian would long outlive his three brothers. The warrior king probably thought that Christian's legitimising was simply for show and of no dynastic importance.

The other documents proved to be equally interesting. One of them detailed the assorted possessions and responsibilities of the monarch. At the top of the list was the Heart of Gold.

It confirmed Aubrey's impression that this fabulous artefact was of ancient origin, for it was noted as being old when Stephen came to the throne. The document described the golden heart as being the soul of the nation, irreplaceable in every way. It also spoke of terrible consequences if it were moved.

'What does that word mean?' Caroline asked. She pointed right where Aubrey was reading.

'Unravelling, I think.'

Aubrey paused and stared at the smoke-stained ceiling. Unravelling. That was a good way of describing what was happening to Lutetia and Gallia. Just as an intricate carpet could fray and lose its pattern, the country was falling to pieces. And a dangerous time for Albion would ensue if it continued.

'I'll feel happier after we leave these documents at the embassy,' he said, and he wondered what Bertie's reaction would be when he read them.

Nineteen

AUBREY HELD THE BANKNOTES JUST OUT OF REACH OF the cabby. 'Are you sure this is the right place?' he asked in Gallian.

'This is where you asked to come.' The cabby was unshaven. He wore a monocle, which made him look rather more academic than the rest of his clothes indicated.

Aubrey nodded to Caroline and George. 'He says this is the place where von Stralick asked us to meet him.'

'Looks like a wasteland to me,' George said. The sun shone hard and brassy over the factories with yards full of discarded timber, iron and rope. A disused canal, overgrown with willows and rubbish, ran behind the factories. The entire area was abandoned, an industrial wilderness. Aubrey found it difficult to believe that the Chalbord district was less than six miles from the centre of the city.

'What's that?' Aubrey asked the cabby. He pointed at a mound of concrete on the nearest corner. Ten feet or more in height, it looked as if a bunker had been knocked over by a steamroller and then used as a dump for unwanted pieces of cast iron.

'Metro station, used to be. The St Louis spur runs right underneath us here. Not been used since they built the Central line.'

Aubrey handed him the money. 'Excellent.'

The cab rolled off with little haste, despite the unlikelihood of picking up any fares in a neighbourhood that seemed devoid of people. Aubrey watched until it turned the corner into Kellerman Street and headed back toward the centre of the city.

Caroline inspected the rubble from a distance. 'Do you think we're looking at another Holmland hiding place?'

'We'll find out soon enough,' Aubrey said. 'But they do seem to have a penchant for underground refuges.'

George clapped his hands together. 'Right. Let's see just what part of this rubbish is a disguised entrance.'

He strode across the desolate intersection. Aubrey caught Caroline's attention. 'Good man, is George.'

'Indeed.' She smiled. 'Shall we follow him?'

'After you.'

Just before George reached the rubble, the mound groaned and shook. He jumped backward as a rough rectangle detached itself and slammed back with a ringing crash. With nowhere to hide, Aubrey groped for a useful spell, absently noting that the rectangle of rubbish was a door, cunningly disguised and set into the debris. It had been covered with broken concrete and a rusty iron grille.

Hugo von Stralick stumbled out, wild-eyed and panting. Aubrey sighed with relief, and he hurried to the Holmlander.

Von Stralick stood on the edge of the mound and gazed with horror at the gaping hole he'd sprung from. Then he saw he wasn't alone. He wiped his brow with one hand. 'The Heart of Gold. It is gone. Muller and Schnagel are dead.'

'Steady, von Stralick,' Aubrey said. 'What's going on?'

Von Stralick's clothing was in disarray. His grey tweed jacket was streaked with cobwebs. His tie was awry. He'd lost his hat and he dragged at his hair with his fingers, trying to get it into some sort of order. His eyes were not steady; his gaze roamed around, not settling long on anything.

It was most unlike the self-possessed Holmland spy that Aubrey had come to know.

Von Stralick cleared his throat, then closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, his breathing was slower, his voice less hoarse. 'I received a communication, telling me of this place.' He jabbed a finger at the rubble. 'Another refuge that Muller and Schnagel had access to. I had orders for them.'

'Ah,' Aubrey said. 'The machinations among your factions must have come to a head.'

Von Stralick shrugged. Slowly, he was beginning to resemble the fashionable diplomat again. 'When I return to Fisherberg I expect I will hear that some general or other has taken extended leave, or died unexpectedly or suchlike.'

'What were you going to do?' Caroline asked.

'Muller and Schnagel were ordered back to base. I was to take the Heart of Gold and restore it to its rightful place. Discreetly, of course.'

'But who killed them?' George asked.

'That I do not know, but whoever it was has taken the Heart of Gold. It makes matters most uncertain.'

'Uncertain,' Aubrey said. 'Nothing's changed then.' He went to the doorway and peered into the darkness.

'Where are you going?' Caroline demanded.

'The Heart of Gold has gone, but the scene of the crime remains. Let's see what we can learn.'

'Don't even think of telling me to wait outside,' Caroline warned.

'Wouldn't dream of it.'

'Nor me, old man,' George said.

Von Stralick straightened his jacket and sighed. 'I must accompany you, then. Honour insists.'

A short flight of concrete stairs took them to a concourse littered with building debris. As they went deeper, von Stralick produced a bullseye lantern. When he lit it, the light jittered over the pale green wall tiles. Shreds of old posters advertising absinthe, cigarettes and once-fashionable holiday destinations hung forlornly, reminders of busier times.

Von Stralick took them through rusty turnstiles to the platform. The tunnels were black voids swallowing the tracks. Aubrey felt a faint breeze on his face as they walked to the end of the platform, where Von Stralick stopped. The lantern light wobbled on an iron door. A sign announced it was for staff only.

The Holmland spy visibly steeled himself, then put his shoulder to the door. It screeched on rusty hinges and opened onto a narrow corridor. Von Stralick led them to a workshop where tools hung from racks and caught the lantern light. The smell of oil and metal was thick, along with a more unpleasant smell. Aubrey paused on the threshold of the workshop, sensing magic; it had the unique flavour of the Heart of Gold.

Von Stralick, his face grim, put the lantern on a bench, then reached out and pulled a chain. The room was flooded with harsh light. A ghastly scene was revealed, stark and horrible: two men, a bear, all dead, amid a great deal of blood.

Aubrey closed his eyes for a moment in an instinctive desire for the awfulness to go away. He felt as if he'd been punched, very hard, in the stomach.

'Good Lord,' George breathed. He took two ragged steps and leaned against a wall. He covered his mouth with both hands. He didn't take his eyes from the carnage.

Caroline visibly blanched and Aubrey moved to her side, ready to catch her if she fainted, but she took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'It's the blood.'

'Me too,' Aubrey said and he was rewarded with a grateful glance.

Aubrey did his best to study the scene dispassionately, alert to any clues, but he found it hard. Even though Muller and Schnagel were – by von Stralick's accounts – ruthless spies, he wouldn't wish their fate on anyone. Their faces told the story: their deaths had been violent, full of pain and terror.

'They were like this when you found them?' Aubrey asked von Stralick.

'Yes. No. I checked to see if they were alive. That was all.' Von Stralick took a deep breath. 'You'll notice it's a different bear from the one that was at St Martin airfield. This is black. The other was brown.'

Aubrey moved closer to the bodies. One of them was half-underneath the bear, his face horribly torn, the eye patch hanging on his cheek. 'That's Schnagel,' von Stralick said. 'It's Muller over there.'

Schnagel had been killed by the bear. His massive wounds had clearly been inflicted by the claws of the brute.

He examined the bear. It had been shot, several times, but not at close range – no telltale powder burns on its fur.

He looked at Muller. He was lying a few yards away, on his front, with his back to the door. A revolver was still in his hand, but his body had no claw marks, no bites. Instead, he had a gunshot wound – in the middle of his back.

Aubrey tried to reconstruct the scene in his mind. A roaring wild beast, shouting, screams, gunfire. Confusion – much confusion. Would the presence of the Heart of Gold have added to the chaos?

He stood and wiped his hands together. 'It's clear that the bear killed Schnagel. Muller shot the bear, most likely in an attempt to save his comrade.'

'Then someone shot him in the back,' von Stralick muttered.

'From the doorway, I'd say,' Aubrey said. 'Then he stole the Heart of Gold, whoever he was.'

'Or she,' Caroline added. Aubrey shrugged.

'It was here?' von Stralick asked.

'Definitely. Its magical presence still lingers.' He could feel it. It left its mark on the surroundings the same way a heavy weight would on wet sand.

'Well, old man,' George said, 'can't you do that vision thing? The one where you find out what happened?'

He shook his head. 'The Heart of Gold. Magic will be extremely difficult in this area for some time.'

'Then who did this?' von Stralick said.

'When magic is insufficient, we must use our brains.'

Von Stralick gave a shaky grin. 'Baron Verulam?'

'I'm impressed, von Stralick.' You have hidden depths, Hugo. Aubrey was sure that knowledge of Baron Verulam, the seventeenth-century magician and natural philosopher, wasn't required knowledge for a Holmland spy. Had von Stralick studied the man who began modern magic because he knew he was one of Aubrey's heroes? And if so, what did that imply?

'It is good to impress,' von Stralick said. 'Please go on.'

'To start an investigation,' Aubrey continued, 'we need to know what questions to ask first.' He spread his hands. 'Well?'

Caroline nodded. 'Who would benefit from the deaths of Muller and Schnagel?'

'Good.'

'Who knew they were here?' George volunteered.

'Excellent.'

'Where is the Heart of Gold?' von Stralick added.

'Important, but if we knew that, everything else would be irrelevant.' Aubrey grimaced. 'But there is one other question that I'm very, very interested in.'

George knew his role. 'And what's that, old man?'

Aubrey pointed. 'Where did the bear come from?'

OUTSIDE THE STATION, AUBREY STOOD WITH HIS HANDS ON his hips, looking back at the city. Smoke rose in a number of places and he thought he could hear shots. In the distance, alarm bells rang. Angry voices drifted across the rooftops and he hoped it didn't signal more riots.

'The bear, old man,' George said. 'Don't taunt us like this. Where d'you think it came from?'

Aubrey brought his hands together and studied them. For days, he'd been trying to sort out the manifold events in Lutetia. Riots, sabotage, politics, with the flavour of magic weaving in and about every single incident. He'd pored over the happenings, analysed them, picked them apart and then – when other events were more pressing – let his mind work, making the intuitive leaps in the dark that often produced startling results.

Now, with Lutetia decaying on the skyline, he had it.

'It's the Heart of Gold,' he said. 'I think it made the bear.'

'Made the bear?' Caroline said. 'Out of what?'

'A man.' The sun had taken on an odd, red tinge. It made the streaky clouds look bloody. 'The Heart of Gold is transforming people into ancient Lutetian animals.'

Von Stralick frowned. George scratched his cheek.

'Ah,' Caroline said, 'I see. Wolves, bears, aurochs, even lions. They once roamed this very spot.'

'The Heart of Gold is the pivot around which all of this is happening. All the disruptions to the city are because it has been ripped from its resting place. It's like removing a keystone and watching an arch crumble.'

'And the animals?' George asked, his brow furrowed. 'It's just randomly turning people into beasts?'

Aubrey rubbed his hands together, slowly. The more he explained, putting his suspicions into words, the more certain he felt of his conclusions. 'Remember the order of nuns devoted to cradling the Heart of Gold? I'd say that it's more than a ritual. My guess is that the Heart must remain in contact with a human.' Aubrey thought of the unfortunate Sister Anne. He hoped she had recovered. 'When all is good and proper, it nestles, almost dormant, in the lap of its custodian, in the heart of the country. Its presence binds Gallia together.'

'It belongs in the Chapel of the Heart,' Caroline murmured.

'Exactly. Removed from its rightful place, the Heart of Gold is unbalanced, dangerous.' Recalling the nuns in the Chapel of the Heart led him to think of the connection between humanity and magic. Some savants believed that it was the way that humanity intersected with the universe that gave rise to magic. 'It must be cradled by a human,' he said, slowly. 'Held close. Embraced.'

'But all that's been thrown out of the window now,' George said.

'Yes. But taken away from where it belongs, its magic is disruptive, not binding.'

'Ach. Those closest turn into wild animals,' von Stralick said, his eyes widening.

'Yes. And once that happens, a new custodian is needed.'

'Who would take that role, knowing their fate?' Caroline asked.

Von Stralick stared into the distance. 'Volunteers convinced of the rightness of their cause. Those willing to give their lives for their country.'

'Or unwitting dupes. If they're not told their fate, they won't refuse,' Aubrey pointed out. 'Either way, Muller and Schnagel were taken by surprise by the change in their chosen custodian. Perhaps the process is accelerating.'

'The Holmlander who was holding the Heart of Gold turned into a bear,' George said, frowning. 'The bear attacked, and Muller was shot after dispatching the bear.'

'And the lucky assassin took the Heart of Gold,' Aubrey said. 'Which is what he was after, no doubt.'

'But he would start to change, too,' Caroline said.

'True. If he knew what was going on, he'd quickly pass it onto a volunteer, or dupe, as the Holmlanders did.'

'So it's gone, with persons unknown, to an unspecified location,' Caroline said.

'So it seems,' Aubrey said.

'So we're no better off.'

Aubrey sighed. 'No, not really. Worse, in most ways. Unless von Stralick can help here.'

The Holmlander shrugged. 'I'm at a loss, I'm afraid. I'll have to consult my network. And my superiors.'

The ground underfoot trembled. 'I think you'd best do that,' Aubrey said. 'Quickly, too.'

Caroline frowned. 'This, of course, explains the presence of the other bear at the airfield last Friday. The Heart of Gold was there with Muller and Schnagel and their foot soldiers.'

Von Stralick tugged at his earlobe. Then he rubbed his chin and grimaced. 'Yes. Well. That may be true.'

'You saw it there, didn't you?' George said.

'Why didn't you take it from them?' Caroline asked.

Von Stralick straightened his cuffs. 'I was not in a good position. I was endeavouring to prove my trustworthiness to them. They were very suspicious.'

'So you helped them blow up the Gallian airship?' Aubrey said. 'It's a dangerous role you undertook, von Stralick.'

'Very much so. My orders were to get close to them then stop them. They were dangerous rogues and my superiors wanted things put right.' He glanced at Aubrey. 'I refused to fire upon you in the hangar, you know. That's when they turned on me. I barely escaped.'

Aubrey couldn't decide how much of this to believe. Von Stralick appeared to be sincere. But he wouldn't be much of a spy if he couldn't pretend sincerity, he thought. 'So Gallia's enemy is helping Gallia?'

'Trust me. I deeply desire to restore the Heart of Gold.'

VON STRALICK LEFT, HEADING NORTH ON AN ERRAND HE wouldn't divulge. Aubrey, Caroline and George began to walk back toward the city. Aubrey had his head bowed deep in thought, ignoring the frequent, minor earth tremors, while George and Caroline batted about possibilities.

'What about a bear trap?' George suggested.

'We want the Heart of Gold,' Aubrey said, 'not the transformed foot soldiers.'

'Some sort of magical sniffer?' George tried again.

'Good idea. Work on the details and get back to me.'

'The brick dust,' Caroline asked. 'Is it as depleted as the fragments?'

'Even more so, I'm afraid.'

'There is no way of recharging it? Giving it more power?'

'Not in any practical sense, especially since Maurice won't let us harm his building.'

Something niggled at Aubrey, like an itch between the shoulder blades. He tried to bring it to light but it slipped away.

'Let me see if I have this right,' Caroline said. 'The tower is impregnated with magic, so much so that it is attuned to great sources of magic.'

'Correct.' Aubrey almost had it again, but it still eluded him.

'So you noted the way the tower leaned and then cross-referenced it against the yearning of the brick fragments.'

'Yes.' Aubrey stopped dead. 'That's it.'

'I knew you'd think of something, old man,' George said. 'He always does,' he added to Caroline.

'If we can't use the bricks to find the Heart of Gold, we'll use the tower.'

'Oh,' George said. 'We tried that.'

'We found direction via the tower, but I think we can find the actual location using the tower.' He appealed to them. 'I'm sure it will work.'

George and Caroline shared a rueful glance. George shrugged. 'He's full of ideas, you know.'

'So I've noticed,' Caroline said. 'Let's hope this is a good one.'

Twenty

MAURICE STARED. 'YOU WANT TO FLOAT THE FACULTY of Magic into the air and let it drift across the city like a balloon?'

'Don't worry,' Aubrey said with his best attempt at an encouraging smile, 'it'll be perfectly safe.'

They were standing in the tiny room that served as the caretaker's office. Aubrey was impressed, for Maurice's office was immaculate, from the small desk with invoices arranged in baskets, to the hooks on the walls with a variety of dustcoats.

'You are crazy.' Maurice looked at Caroline and George. 'He is crazy, isn't he?' he said in Albionish.

'He may seem like that,' George agreed. 'At times. Often. But he isn't really, despite appearances.'

'That's true, Maurice,' said Caroline. 'His schemes may sound bizarre, but he's not mad, as such.'

Aubrey glanced at his friends, who both seemed to be stifling smiles, then he turned back to Maurice. 'I'm sure you've heard of more outlandish plans than this, in your time as caretaker of the faculty.'

Maurice scratched his chin. 'There's madness and then there's madness, I suppose.'

'Come now, Maurice,' Caroline said. 'You were worried that the faculty had been forgotten. This is a grand opportunity to make it renowned again. Doesn't the old faculty deserve such a thing instead of mouldering away forgotten? Imagine the fame if the Faculty of Magic is responsible for finding the missing Heart of Gold.'

'The university will be grateful,' George said. 'It might put some funds into the old place.'

Maurice was hopeful. 'The tower. It won't be damaged?'

Aubrey clapped the caretaker on the shoulder. 'Trust me.'

ONE BENEFIT OF CONSTRUCTING A SPELL TO LEVITATE A building that had once contained a Faculty of Magic was that there was no shortage of precedent. While Aubrey walked around the interior, circling the great iron staircase, Maurice regaled him with previous experiments in the area of weight negation.

'Monsieur Pascal, he was a wag,' the caretaker cackled. 'Made the bust of the Dean float around the professor's quadrangle for an hour before it fell into the fountain. And then there was Madame Carillon. She came up with a way to cause anything made of antimony to shoot straight up in the air, like a skyrocket.'

'Must have been useful,' George chipped in and Aubrey was grateful. He needed to concentrate and Maurice's happy reminiscing was hard to ignore.

George and Caroline took Maurice aside and gave him an audience for his stories. Aubrey continued to circle the staircase, hands behind his back, humming tunelessly as he tried to piece together a spell to lift the whole tower.

His idea was simple. The tower was yearning for the Heart of Gold. If it could be unmoored, set free of the earth, it would be able to achieve its goal.

All I have to do is wrench a thousand-year-old tower out of the ground and set it drifting across the city, he thought. Shouldn't be too hard.

At first he considered the Law of Opposites. Perhaps magically linking the tower with a pile of lead and then circumscribing a weight inversion would produce the desired effect. He shook his head. It would be too hard to get the control he needed to vary the lift. Besides, he didn't have a large pile of lead nearby.

He stopped pacing and looked up at the light filtering down from the turret. In some ways, it was similar to the problems that dirigible engineers and captains had to face. Too much helium in the gasbags and an airship would rocket to the stratosphere. Too little and it would never leave the ground. Balance was the essential principle, so that the airship would be just a little lighter than the air around it. Then it would rise like a soap bubble, not like a rock hurled from a volcano.

Balance. He rubbed his hands together, hard. It was all a matter of balance. He needed a spell that would not only cancel the weight of the tower, but also be adaptable enough to handle the changing density of the air they would travel through.

He kneaded his forehead with a knuckle, trying to think.

He remembered reading about ancient sorcerers in the east and their attempts to construct bamboo aircraft for warfare. These fantastic constructions in the shapes of dragons were equipped with gunpowder bombs, but were never able to lift far from the ground, despite the sorcerers' best efforts. The most successful only rose to head height before flipping over and crashing to the ground.

Flipping. His face cleared. Perhaps he'd been thinking about the problem in entirely the wrong way. The great seventeenth-century scientist-magician Sir Isaac Ayscough declared that weight was indistinguishable from falling. In effect, the weight of the tower was as if the tower was trying to fall toward the centre of the earth. If Aubrey could reverse the direction of that falling, the building would – in effect – fall upwards. The challenge would be to control the rate of that falling, so that the tower would float easily and safely.

A reversal spell was what he needed. He chewed his lip. He would have to be very careful. It wouldn't do to reverse aspects or qualities such as height, or permanence, or age, although it may be interesting to see how the tower looked when it was first built. Reversing such qualities would require an enormous application of magic. The resulting state would be very unstable, even with tightly circumscribed variables of location, intensity and duration.

The Law of Reversal had many, many derivatives. It was used to lower temperatures in crucial chemical reactions. It had numerous safety applications, dampening sounds, light intensities and velocities in wide-ranging circumstances. But Aubrey knew it was a notoriously delicate area to work in. Some magicians chose to specialise in reversal spells, making it their life work and gaining well-paid positions adjusting spells for industry and the military.

I could get in touch with the Magisterium. I'm sure they have some reversal specialists on staff. He grinned. Or I could improvise.

He started humming happily. It'd probably take too long to contact the Magisterium, anyway.

In a reversal spell, as for most serious magic, one of the most important aspects was the magician's choice of language – or combination of languages. Aubrey decided that using Chaldean may be useful, as that ancient civilisation's taut and structured syntax was well suited to grappling with the sometimes tortured inversions that a reversal spell dealt with.

He glanced at the open door to Maurice's office. He caught George's eye and gestured. George nodded, then steered Maurice away, giving Aubrey a chance to dart into the tiny room.

Ten minutes later, he surveyed the blotter in front of him, satisfied. He'd scratched out a spell that he was sure would be able to lift the magical tower from its foundations.

He folded the coarse paper and left the office. Behind Maurice's back, Caroline rolled her eyes at him. Aubrey was happy to come to the rescue. 'Maurice,' he said, interrupting a story about floating crockery, 'would you like to come flying with us?'

Maurice started, then shook his head. 'I'm not one for adventures. I'm the one who stays behind and cleans up the mess.'

'And a fine job you do, I'm sure,' George said.

'You're sure about this?' Maurice said to Aubrey.

'As sure as a magician can be.'

Caroline patted Maurice's arm. 'I think that was meant to be reassuring.'

'It was? I don't mean any disrespect, but I've seen many magicians in my time.'

'Ah,' George said, 'so that means you've seen plenty of things go wrong.'

'True enough.'

'Well, Maurice, I'm offering this place a chance.' Aubrey put a hand on the brickwork. 'It can stay as it is, falling into disrepair until someone feels it'd be a good idea to pull it down and put up an office block. Or we can go ahead with my plan and give it a great and noble chance. It might be its last adventure, but it'd go out with a blaze of glory.'

Maurice cracked a grin. 'Aye, it would be that. The old place deserves a chance to live again.'

Aubrey bowed to Caroline. 'Care to come for a spin in my building-mobile?'

'I'd be delighted.'

Maurice hobbled toward the door and paused just before exiting. 'Just do your best to bring it back in one piece.' He closed the door softly behind him.

'What now?' Caroline asked, and Aubrey realised she hadn't been present for a major incantation.

'It's simple, really. Just move to the wall and stay quiet. Don't distract me or interrupt.'

'Unless he's in some sort of life-threatening situation,' George said.

'What do you mean?'

'Never mind.' Aubrey shot a dark look at his friend. George chuckled and put his hands in his jacket pockets.

Aubrey stood as close to the centre of the building as he could, his back against the curving balustrade of the stairs. He settled his feet, feeling that a solid grounding may be important in this undertaking. He took the blotting paper out of his pocket and studied the scratchy Chaldean script as his pulse began to beat faster. All seemed in order. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind. Tiny misgivings nipped at him, but he shook them off. I can do this, he thought. I will do this.

He opened his eyes. He took a deep breath, let it out, and took in another. Then he began.

The Chaldean syllables were dense and agglutinative. They felt like blocks of stone as he growled his way through them, but he kept an even, unhurried rhythm, never allowing one syllable to slur into the next. He was careful with the variables for capacity and area of effect. He made certain that the connection between the earth and the tower was established and controllable. He didn't want the tower fizzing off into the heavens. He felt sweat on his brow as he moved on to limit the rate of reversal, inserting a constant to maintain a steady increase in the rate, one that he could monitor and adjust as necessary.

The final syllable was his signature, a cobbled-together Chaldean version. It was subdued, without the flourish that Aubrey often embellished his work with. When it left his lips, he threw back his head and flung out his arms. The syllables echoed around the open space of the tower. He hoped he presented a dramatic picture, or an impressive one, at least.

The floor beneath his feet trembled. A fine rain of dust fell from somewhere above, accompanied by a patter of dry pigeon droppings.

Aubrey let his arms drop to his side. The walls trembled, vibrating with magical power and a groan went up from underneath the floor. It was an old sound, but it wasn't a sad one. It was as if a giant were stretching and greeting a new day.

The tower lifted a few inches, then dropped back with a crash.

'Aubrey?' Caroline said. She and George were still standing with their backs to the wall.

'This first part may be a little rough.' He waved a hand and did his best to appear as if he'd had enormous experience with levitating buildings.

George looked sceptically at him, but they eased themselves to the floor. George sat, splay-legged, Caroline rather more elegantly.

The tower lifted again, then shuddered, and Aubrey hastily joined his friends on the floor.

The walls flexed and strained, creaking mightily. The tower seemed eager to be off, but through the window by the door Aubrey could see they hadn't moved. He stretched out his magical awareness and found that the building was pulsing with power. The reversal spell had worked, but the building still hadn't taken flight.

Puzzled, Aubrey went over the spell in his mind, looking for any errors he may have made, but found nothing. The groaning in the walls grew louder and from beneath the floor came a grinding, snapping sound.

He stiffened and realised that he'd overlooked something very important. His spell had encompassed the whole building – but from ground level up. He'd forgotten about the cellars.

He started to climb to his feet, ready to begin constructing a cancellation spell, but at that moment the floor shook; then with the sound of splitting timber and the screech of metal being torn apart, the tower wrenched upward and Aubrey was thrown to the floor.

He landed awkwardly on his back. All the air was driven from his lungs and, for a moment, his body refused to drag in any replacement. All he could think about was breathing again, but his body remained uncooperative. Eventually, after what seemed like hours, he gasped and managed to drag in a sweet and precious breath, then another. He sat up, dazed and shaking. Through the windows, he could see the Library wall opposite. It was sinking.

He shook his head. No, that wasn't right. The tower was rising.

'Well done.'

Caroline was on hands and knees. He waved, weakly. 'I'm glad it worked.'

She cocked an eyebrow at him. 'Did you think it mightn't?'

'I had a few qualms.'

'But you went ahead.'

He spread his hands. 'I tend to.'

'I've noticed.'

'Can we get off the floor now?' George asked. Without waiting for an answer, he rose slowly to his feet, arms spread for balance. 'There. Much better.'

Aubrey stood and held out a hand to Caroline. She took it, but held it so lightly that it was clear she didn't need his assistance. But she took it anyway, Aubrey thought with some satisfaction.

'I say, old man,' George said while he brushed himself off, 'what was that ghastly noise before we started rising? Sounded as if the whole place was coming apart.'

With care, Aubrey walked to the window. They'd just cleared the rooftops of the surrounding buildings and a crowd had gathered below. Some were pointing, but others were scurrying around in between plumes of white vapour and jets of water. Maurice's unmistakeable figure was on the edge of a large, tower-shaped hole. He was grappling with a stop cock. 'The cellars,' Aubrey said. 'I forgot about them.'

George and Caroline joined him at the window. George grinned. 'And about the water and gas pipes.'

'I had a lot on my mind.'

'Maurice won't be happy. Quite a mess we've left.'

At that moment, the old caretaker looked up. Aubrey winced, anticipating angry fist-shaking. Instead, Maurice's face split with a wide grin. He hopped from foot to foot and waved. Aubrey responded and hoped the caretaker could see him. 'He seems content enough.'

Aubrey's satisfaction drained away as he caught sight of a familiar, but mysterious, figure. Standing to one side of the demolition area was the thin, grey-suited stranger he'd seen several times over the past few days. He was looking up with some exasperation. Holmland agent? Marchmainer? Aubrey had no idea, but he didn't believe the man's appearances were coincidence. Something would have to be done about him, but Aubrey knew he'd have to wait in line behind more pressing matters – and he hoped he wouldn't regret that decision.

The rooftops of the city beyond the university began to unroll beneath them. With a stateliness and ponderous grace, the tower rose over the river, the bridges, the Exposition Tower.

Feeling rather pleased with himself, Aubrey monitored the building for its orientation, ensuring that it was stable in all planes. He didn't want it tipping end over end or spinning on its axis. The ancient building was already under enough strain; he didn't want it under any more.

Caroline and George were standing at the window on the left-hand side of the door. Aubrey joined them. 'How high are we going?' George asked. He was enjoying himself, peering out of the window and pointing out landmarks.

'Not too high. Just enough to clear the rooftops.' Aubrey pointed. 'We're moving.'

'In the direction of the Heart of Gold?' Caroline asked.

'I hope so.'

The tower drifted steadily over Lutetia. As it went, however, it developed a tiny, almost imperceptible tilt, listing in the direction of its yearning. Aubrey was aware of it and he started to grow nervous, but it was so slight neither Caroline nor George had to shift their footing to accommodate it. 'Let's go to the turret,' he suggested. 'We'll get a better view from up there.'

From the windows of the turret, they had a complete panorama of the city, unmatched by anything apart from the view from the Exposition Tower. They were drifting fifty feet or so above the tallest buildings, but Aubrey could see astonished faces on the rooftops. People were gesticulating, and small crowds gathered on corners to watch the tower's dignified progress.

From here, he was also able to see what had happened to the city. Whole blocks had burned, with a number still smoking. In other places, gaps showed where the earth had opened up and swallowed entire buildings. Water fountained from broken pipes. Roads were cut by crevasses that seemed bottomless.

The elegant city had been broken. Not quite ruined, but Aubrey wondered how much more it could deteriorate before it was unrecognisable.

The tower drifted at a pace just faster than a rapid walk, in a north-easterly direction. Some children kept apace on bicycles, but lost interest when the tower didn't do anything more spectacular than a balloon. Ahead was the Montheath district and the vast New Cemetery, then the parklike grounds of the Modern Asylum.

Aubrey realised they were heading in the direction of the Laval Woods. In normal circumstances it would be well populated, but the unwholesomeness of the river had repelled those who usually enjoyed its surroundings.

Aubrey found himself busy, monitoring the various aspects of the tower's flight. He became aware of the fact that he was in charge of tons of ancient masonry that could crash down on the city at any minute. His brow began to sweat.

They drifted directly along the Boulevard of Rectitude, the broad road that was the main north route from the city. Aubrey leaned against an upright but could only make out a lonely rag-and-bone cart clip-clopping down the usually busy road.

The tower shivered beneath his fingertips and Aubrey snatched them back as if he'd been burnt. He extended his magical awareness, skating over the properties of the spell. Was the tower spinning slightly? Or was it the roof catching the breeze awkwardly?

'Are we moving more quickly?' Caroline asked.

'I think so.' He relaxed and told his heart to stop being so dramatic, then he checked the general integrity of the spell. It was holding well. The reversal was fully in place and balanced, with the tower just buoyant enough to float along easily. 'We could be getting closer to our goal.'

The Laval Woods rolled beneath them. The mature trees were a thick canopy with gaps showing where paths turned the wilderness into something more manageable.

George pointed. 'I say, what's going on there?'

At the eastern entrance of the park, in front of the iron fence and gates, was a spread of lawn. It was criss-crossed with diagonal brick paths, with benches evenly spaced where a walker might linger on a sunny day. The man and woman George was pointing at, however, had no intention of lingering. They were running toward the gates, pursued by a barrel-like, heavily tusked creature.

'It's a wild boar,' Caroline said. 'It's attacking them!'

Below, the couple had given up their flight for the gates. They'd stopped behind one of the benches, keeping it between them and the boar. The boar was swinging its massive head, brandishing tusks that curved like scimitars. It pawed at the ground, sending clods flying. The woman thrust an umbrella at it with good fencing style, but Aubrey couldn't tell if it was keeping the brute away, or merely annoying it.

The boar wasn't giving up, however. The man and woman were trapped.

Aubrey was both alarmed and relieved. Finding an extinct animal was like finding a signpost to the Heart of Gold. There were no wild boar anywhere near Lutetia, he was sure of that, which meant that the Heart of Gold must be nearby – or have been in this vicinity recently.

He snapped out the cancellation spell and the tower dropped like a stone.

His stomach tried to claw its way up his throat. Aubrey gritted his teeth and when he saw the ground rushing up he gasped out a partial reversal. With a crash that shook the walls, their plunge stopped and all three were thrown to the floor, again. Aubrey dragged himself up and was relieved to see that he'd stopped the tower's descent just before it ploughed into the ground. He realised he couldn't leave the tower floating as it would drift off in the direction of the Heart of Gold, so he ran through a more careful reversal spell. This time the tower settled softly onto the earth, with hardly a protest.

Aubrey was first out of the tower. He dropped onto the grass a few yards from the frightened couple.

With terrifying speed, the boar whirled to confront him and Aubrey found himself wondering how it managed on such tiny feet. It snorted a challenge and shook its tusks. He stared at its mad, red eyes and a knot of fear grew in his throat and refused to be swallowed away.

Coming to the rescue had seemed like a good idea, but as he stood there, empty-handed and feeling distinctly vulnerable, he realised he should perhaps have planned his intervention rather more carefully.

The boar was almost as tall as he was, a slab of muscle and rage on the verge of charging. Great, snorting breaths rasped from its snout. He remembered reading stories of medieval boar hunts, and how he'd always been saddened by the poor hounds, gutted by the rampaging swine. Backing off, he decided he'd rather not share that fate.

A yell jerked the boar's attention away. George plummeted from the tower, bellowing a war-cry and flourishing a long spear. He landed clumsily, but straightened and poked at the boar's rump. It squealed, angrily, then swung to face him. Seeing the spear, it backed away, grunting and huffing.

'It's going to charge,' Aubrey cried as the creature tried to slip to one side of George's weapon.

George was grim but calm. He jabbed his spear. 'Don't think so, old man.'

With a whisper, Caroline landed on the grass and was immediately in a fighting pose – on one knee, butt of her spear jammed into the ground. A moment later, when she was sure the boar wasn't charging her, she stood shoulder to shoulder with George. They presented a formidable defence. Aubrey noted that, once again, she'd discarded her clumsy garments and wore the sensible – and rather fetching – black fighting outfit.

Aubrey felt a little left out as the boar swayed from one side to the other, trying to get past the weapons. He patted the pockets of his jacket and felt a hard lump. Hardly thinking, he pulled it out and threw it at the boar.

His aim was good. It struck the boar just over one eye. It squealed, clearly not hurt, but disconcerted nonetheless. It feinted a charge, then – looking almost offended – galloped off toward the woods.

Aubrey sighed, then stared at his friends. 'You saw off a vicious wild boar with a pair of curtain rods?'

George shrugged. 'Well, if I'm not mistaken, you just saw off a vicious wild boar by lobbing a brass door knob at it.'

It was Aubrey's turn to shrug. 'It was all I had.'

George slung the curtain rod over his shoulder. 'Well, give me more warning next time and I'll make sure I have a blunderbuss.'

Caroline twirled her rod around and tapped it on the ground. She was smiling. 'Improvisation is the key. Isn't that what you say, Aubrey?'

'I'm glad you chose to model yourselves on me,' he said gravely. 'A wise decision.'

The woman behind the park bench lowered her umbrella. 'Ah, it's good to see that things have thawed between you two, at last.'

'Mother,' Caroline said. 'What are you doing here?'

Ophelia Hepworth smiled at her daughter, then at the man beside her. He was small and neat, with a pointed grey beard, and even though he had clasped his hands, they were trembling. 'Obviously, my dear, Alphonse and I are trying to avoid being savaged by a wild boar. And now we have, I think he has something to tell you.'

Aubrey blinked as he recognised the document merchant. 'Monsieur Caron.'

Monsieur Caron rubbed his forehead, then studied the magic tower for a moment. 'Things have become much stranger than I'd anticipated,' he said in a faltering voice. Then he glanced at Mrs Hepworth. She nodded; he straightened and addressed Aubrey. 'I was meeting a group of Marchmainers, Mr Fitzwilliam. I was going to sell them the letters they – and you – were after.'

'And why didn't you?'

'One of them changed into that wild boar. It attacked us. They ran off. A motorcar was waiting for them.'

'They had the Heart of Gold.'

'Oh, yes. I'd know it anywhere.'

ONCE THE TOWER WAS ALOFT WITH ITS TWO NEW PASSENGERS, Aubrey stood with George at the ground-floor window and urged it onwards. Rivulets of dust trickled from above as the tower began to move faster.

Monsieur Caron stood with Mrs Hepworth and Caroline, near the staircase. His face was pale. 'Where are we going? What is happening?'

'Gallia is falling apart, Monsieur Caron,' Aubrey said, without turning from the window. 'We're doing our best to stop it. Are you?'

'Falling apart? But . . .'

'I don't think we have much time.' A sharp cracking sound came from one of the upper storeys. Monsieur Caron flinched. 'Tell us what you know, if you would.'

'Alphonse is not a bad man,' Mrs Hepworth said. 'Greed does tend to have a hold on him, however. When I heard that he had disappeared, I knew he was in trouble. I sought him out to see if I could help. He suggested a walk in the park and here we are.' She favoured Caron with a disapproving look.

'How do you know him, Mother?' Caroline asked.

'Oh, Alphonse used to be a painter. He's an old friend. Aren't you, Alphonse?'

'Yes. And I am a proud Gallian,' Monsieur Caron said. 'Whatever else, do not forget that. I will defend the republic.'

Aubrey had the distinct impression that Caron's nervousness was not simply caused by the strange surroundings. He wondered how far apart a document merchant and a blackmailer were. After all, the correspondence of the famous must contain some very interesting information.' Let me know if anything untoward appears,' Aubrey said to George.

'Shall do, old man.'

Aubrey left the window and went to the others. 'Now, Monsieur Caron. You say you are a loyal Gallian.'

'I am.' Caron's voice was firm, but his hands would not keep still. He adjusted his tie, then he stroked his beard, then he adjusted his tie again.

'And yet you were prepared to help Gallia collapse by selling crucial correspondence to the Marchmainers.'

'What? They are simply old letters. Nothing important.' The tower jerked sideways. Aubrey steadied himself by gripping the iron balustrade. Caroline and her mother both swayed with the movement, but Monsieur Caron stumbled backward a few steps before catching himself. 'This ridiculous place is what is falling apart,' he said. 'I demand that you take us back.'

'The correspondence, Monsieur Caron,' Aubrey said. 'How much were the Marchmainers going to pay you?'

Monsieur Caron glared for a moment, then his face collapsed. He tottered a few paces and then sat on the stairs. He put his head in his hands. 'A small fortune. Every time I refused, they came back with a higher price.'

'And you still think the letters were unimportant?'

'I'm a businessman. I'm interested in obtaining the best price for my goods.'

'You had no suspicions?'

Monsieur Caron was silent. He dropped his gaze and studied his hands. 'I cannot afford to have suspicions. These letters are harmless.'

'You don't believe that.'

He looked away. 'They threatened me. They burnt down my shop.'

We aren't dealing with amateurs here, Aubrey thought. 'So you went into hiding,' Aubrey said. Caroline's mother was obviously fond of Monsieur Caron, but Aubrey was sure the man knew more than he was telling. He glanced at George, who was gazing ahead, unconcerned, even though the glass in the window shook. 'Whatever price they offered you, I will better it.'

Monsieur Caron brightened. 'It would be good for the letters to return to their owner.'

'At a price,' Caroline said.

Monsieur Caron looked hurt. 'I have overheads to consider.'

Mrs Hepworth sighed. 'Alphonse. Your greed will be the death of you.'

He spread his hands. 'What can I do? I have commitments.'

'Tell me more about the Marchmainers,' Aubrey said. 'Did they discuss plans with you? Where were they going next?'

'I do not know. They were customers, that was all. They did not discuss anything with me other than price. And the possibility of physical harm.'

'Their leader was a red-headed man?'

Monsieur Caron grimaced. 'Yes. Cold eyes.'

Gabriel. 'I think you were wise to offer the letters. And to agree to meet him.'

'But Aubrey,' Mrs Hepworth said, 'the letters are between your grandmother and your grandfather, are they not? How could they possibly be of any use to anyone else?'

'Well, they certainly seem to be of great interest to Marchmainers.' Aubrey's brain, already whirring at high speed, began to churn even faster. The letters were written around the time of the Treaty of St Anne, which brought Albion and Gallia together as allies. He shook his head. Such an event wouldn't be of interest to Marchmainers. Except if someone else was in the capital at the same time . . .

'Grandmother is an expert at meeting important people,' he said slowly. 'Even more, she has perfected the art of being remembered by them. She has vast networks of friends, acquaintances and correspondents and she never forgets a name.' He stared at Monsieur Caron. 'I'm guessing that her letters talk about someone important to the Marchmaine movement. Someone very, very important.'

'Martin Victor,' Monsieur Caron confirmed. 'Apparently he was a good friend of your grandfather. The letters mentioned that they regularly played cards together.' Monsieur Caron gave a small smile. 'Your grandfather lost, most often.'

Caroline raised an eyebrow. 'The Steel Duke playing cards with the founder of the Sons of Victor?'

'Useful, but not of earth-shattering importance. Was there anything else?'

'Ah. Then perhaps you mean the fact that your grandfather paid substantial sums of money to Martin Victor to help fund his struggle for a Marchmaine homeland?'

'Ah,' Aubrey said, distantly. 'Yes. I think that would do it.' He squeezed his hands together, hard, while he thought through the implications of this. 'It's perfect, really. Gabriel would love to have letters confirming a link between Marchmaine and Albion, especially a link of a monetary kind. In a stroke it would give some legitimacy to the independence cause and also destabilise the Albion–Gallian alliance.'

Caroline glanced at Monsieur Caron. 'Of course. Albion could be seen to be supporting a breakaway province.'

Aubrey sighed. 'Naturally, if the alliance fails, the Gallian government would be in great trouble. With it already teetering, it could be just the push to send it over the brink. Gallia in chaos would be the perfect time for Marchmaine to declare its sovereignty.'

'A single letter could cause all that?' Mrs Hepworth said. 'Alphonse, for shame.'

'How was I to know?' he pleaded.

'Don't be disingenuous,' Mrs Hepworth said. 'You can't pretend to be ignorant. Your best sales come where delicate political matters are concerned.'

'You have the letters, I presume,' Aubrey said, 'since you were about to hand them over to the Marchmainers.'

Monsieur Caron reached inside his jacket and took out a small packet of letters. The envelopes were crisp and white. They were tied together with a mauve ribbon. 'I have a price in mind,' he said.

'So do I,' Aubrey said and he held out his hand. 'It will be fair.'

Monsieur Caron looked pained, but surrendered the bundle. 'I look forward to your payment.'

'No doubt.' Aubrey held the letters and was mildly surprised that such important documents didn't weigh more. They looked fresh and new, as if they had been written yesterday. 'Mrs Hepworth, would you take care of these for me?'

'Or course, dear boy. Your grandmother will be grateful for your efforts.'

The tower shook, violently this time. George gave a shout. 'Aubrey, look!'

Aubrey hurried to the window. Pylons, mooring masts, airships. 'It's the St Martin airfield.' His mind buzzed. Gabriel and Saltin had admitted that the Gallian Dirigible Corps was full of Marchmainers. Von Stralick had warned that the Marchmainers were after the Heart of Gold.

It all fell into place. He stood, staring at nothing at all. 'I have it,' he said softly.

'Well, would you mind sharing it?' Caroline said.

'Remember when Gabriel took us to this airfield, on Thursday? Saltin was waiting for him, airship ready.'

'Ready for what?' George asked.

'To take the Heart of Gold to Marchmaine, where the Sons of Victor would restore it to its supposed rightful place.'

'But Gabriel didn't have it,' George protested.

'He's spent the last few days getting it, I think.' Aubrey pointed at the airfield ahead. 'From the way this tower is heading, it looks as if he's been successful.'

Aubrey let his explanation sink in. George pursed his lips thoughtfully, while Caroline seemed about to argue, but then nodded, as if she'd checked his logic and been convinced. Mrs Hepworth smiled, excited, but Monsieur Caron simply looked as if he'd rather be somewhere else.

'Since we're heading towards a nest of fanatical murderers,' Caroline said, 'do you think we could be a little more circumspect in our approach?'

'Ah. Are you suggesting that it's difficult to creep up on anyone in a five-storey tower?'

'Yes, that's just what I was suggesting.'

'Good point.' Aubrey remembered the woods that bordered the airfield. 'Hold on to something. We need to descend quickly.'

While he peered out of the window, he put a hand on the brickwork of the ancient tower. His skin tingled where it touched brick and mortar. It felt as if the old tower was singing, alive with the thrill of magic. He moved with the rhythm of power that was pulsing through the structure, summoning the spell he'd used to raise it from its slumber. Carefully, he inverted the inversion, adding an element which would return the tower's weight in a controlled fashion.

The tower dropped.

Amid a chorus of cries and gasps, Aubrey hissed, then spat out two stone-hard Chaldean syllables. The tower's plunge slowed, then stopped. It bobbed in place like a soap bubble.

'Is everyone all right?'

One by one, the passengers admitted they were unhurt. Aubrey rubbed his forehead and repeated the spell, with special emphasis on the elements that controlled the rate of descent. The tower slowed, then descended in a steadier fashion.

'George,' he barked. 'Open the door. Let me know how we're going.'

George wrenched the door open. 'Lots of trees, all round. Large pine tree right below us, old man, about ten feet. There's a bit of a space to the right.'

They were still drifting sideways, more slowly now that Aubrey was returning the tower's proper weight to it. He hoped it would be enough lateral movement to avoid the pine tree. He whispered a few more syllables and the tower inched lower, slowly settling. A woody crunching noise came from below their feet and the rich scent of pine wafted in. Monsieur Caron cried out as a large rock punched up through the floor, and then they were down.

George signed to Aubrey. 'That was close.'

'How close?'

George stood back from the door. The trunk of the pine tree was no more than a yard away.

'Good camouflage,' Aubrey said. 'Let's hope no-one saw us.'

He started for the door. 'Where are you going?' Monsieur Caron said. 'You have your letters. What more do you want?'

Aubrey smiled a lopsided smile. 'The Heart of Gold. Now, who wants to come and battle a band of fanatics for it?'

Twenty-

One

AUBREY LAY ON HIS BELLY AND PEERED AROUND THE corner of the shed, minimising his profile and his chances of being detected. Gravel bit into his chest, but he ignored the discomfort and scanned the site of most of the activity on the base: the largest hangar. Even though it was the early evening, hordes of workers streamed in and out of the facility.

Before leaving the tower, he'd had a moment of concern when Mrs Hepworth volunteered to come with them. It was only after Caroline had firm words with her that she relented and stayed with a relieved Monsieur Caron.

The shed they were using for concealment was an accommodation hut with wooden bunks and spartan furniture, but no tenants. Aubrey took note that it had room for twenty inhabitants.

Between them and the big hangar were twenty or thirty such huts constructed of corrugated iron. On the other side of the gravel road were similar structures, larger and with all the appearance of workshops or warehouses. Those closest to the hangar had open doors, and a constant flow of workers hauled heavy boxes and lengths of metal between these buildings and the hangar.

Two lorries pulled up in front of the hangar and discharged a dozen men each. The sound of heavy construction came from it: metallic screeches and the relentless pounding of heavy machinery.

Half a mile or more past the last hangar, a single airship was moored to its mast. More men were clustered around armed with rifles, and a lorry was beetling back across the tarmac.

Aubrey reached into his pocket.

'Opera glasses, Aubrey?' Caroline said.

He shrugged. 'Madame Calvert lent them to me. I applied a spell that uses the Law of Intensification to enhance their powers.' Aubrey didn't add that he hadn't been able to prevent a side-effect that meant that the glasses occasionally flashed images from operas that Madame Calvert had seen over the years. It was disconcerting when a large, mail-clad tenor suddenly appeared in his field of vision.

None of the men on the tarmac was wearing a uniform. They looked more like farm labourers than soldiers, but the way they carried their weapons was definitely military.

Slowly, he pulled his head back. 'Well?' George said.

'Plenty of activity all around. It looks as if the airship is nearly ready to fly to Chrétien.'

'How are we going to get the Heart of Gold back from them?' Caroline asked.

Excellent question, Aubrey thought. 'Subterfuge. We have to be clever rather than strong.'

'Would seem to be the best approach,' George said, 'a frontal assault being rather out of the question, with just the three of us.'

Aubrey had an idea. 'Caroline, didn't you say that Dr Romellier was working from here?'

She brightened. 'He was put here to advise on airship structures. He's stayed here since. Perhaps he likes the solitude.'

'Perhaps,' Aubrey said, but he wasn't convinced. The airfield was a busy place, and all the more so since the sabotage attack. Reconstruction, police, special investigators . . .No, St Martin airfield wouldn't be quiet at all. 'Why don't the Marchmainers move him out? He must be a nuisance.'

'I can't imagine that a bird man would be much trouble,' George said. 'Fussing about with feathers and beaks can't be too much of a nuisance.'

Aubrey was troubled by this, but he knew that while some knots untied when pulled, most only became knottier. He put it aside. 'He could help us, if we could find him.'

'Where would he be, then?' George asked. 'This is a big place.'

'Tell me, Caroline,' Aubrey said. 'Do you think a researcher like Dr Romellier would appreciate the sort of noise that's coming from the hangar over there?'

'Unlikely,' Caroline said. 'It would drive him to distraction.'

'So, if he had a choice, he'd find somewhere distant from actual construction work.'

'Back toward the main gate,' George suggested.

'But not too close. All the traffic goes through the gate. He'd find that irritating as well.'

Aubrey crawled to the rear corner of the hut. A lane of bare earth between the two rows of huts had become a de facto drain.

'This way,' he hissed to his friends. When they joined him, he paused. 'We know Dr Romellier was communicating with Monsieur Moir via pigeon, don't we?'

'That's what Monsieur Moir told me,' Caroline said.

'Then let's see which of these huts has a pigeon loft nearby.'

The three moved through the shadows, avoiding the drain. Despite the lack of rain, it was muddy and rank.

The pigeon loft they found was small, only large enough for half a dozen birds, and it was empty – but bowls of seeds and fresh water showed that it was still in use.

Aubrey moved to the hut nearest the loft, listening carefully. If anyone was inside, they were keeping very quiet. Then again, a research scientist immersed in his work would hardly make a din, he reasoned.

He beckoned to the others. They crouched at the side of the stairs.

'One at a time,' he whispered, then he slipped under the handrail of the stairs and onto the covered porch. Hidden from view of the hangar, he waited for George and Caroline to join him. When they did – and no alarm went up – he opened the door to the hut and, together, they crept inside.

At first, Aubrey thought it was dim because of the dozens of stuffed birds that were hanging from the ceiling. Then he realised that the windows were draped with gauze.

The hut was one large room. A camp bed took up the left-hand corner, but it looked as if it hadn't been used for a long time. Most of the rest of the room was filled with steamer trunks and packing cases, all of them bearing labels indicating their exotic origins: Nippon, the South Sea Islands, the Arctic, and a number of Oriental nations Aubrey had only heard of as synonyms for 'the ends of the earth'. A long bench took up the wall opposite, under the gauze-swathed windows. A man sat at a desk in the far corner, his back to them, his bald head reflecting the glow of an electrical lamp.

'Close the door,' the man said in clipped Gallian. 'And be quick about it.'

'Sorry,' Aubrey replied in the same language. The man's accent made Aubrey pause, frowning. 'I didn't realise there was a draught.'

The figure at the desk turned and put an elbow on the back of the chair. An enormous black beard jutted from his chin. 'It isn't the draught, it's the light.' He cocked his head on one side. 'You're from Albion, aren't you?' he said in Albionish. 'What are you doing here?'

'You are Dr Romellier?'

The bald-headed man nodded once, sharply. 'Of course.'

'My mother sends you greetings.'

'Your mother?'

'Lady Rose Fitzwilliam. The naturalist.'

'Ah.' Dr Romellier's expression changed from guarded wariness to shrewd calculation. 'So you would be the son of the Prime Minister of Albion, then.'

Dr Romellier stood. He was wearing a white shirt, but no tie. His sleeves were rolled up, showing forearms as brawny as a blacksmith, even though the doctor wouldn't have been much more than four feet tall. Aubrey had never given much consideration to what an ornithologist looked like, and was glad he hadn't gone to the trouble of working up a preconception.

'My mother is an admirer of your work, Dr Romellier,' Aubrey said after he made introductions, to which the ornithologist responded coolly.

'She should be.' He crossed his arms on his broad chest. He stood with his back to his desk, keeping himself between his work and visitors. 'I am a genius.'

No false modesty here, Aubrey thought.

'D'you mind if we have a seat, doctor?' George asked, looking around.

'Yes. I didn't invite you here.'

George was startled, but Aubrey cut in before his friend could argue. 'My mother is keen to get a copy of your monograph on flightless birds of the southern oceans.'

'My monograph?' Dr Romellier cocked his head. 'That's what you're here for?'

Aubrey decided flattery was probably the most useful approach, especially with a self-declared genius. 'Of course. My mother feels your ground-breaking work deserves the widest audience possible.'

Dr Romellier studied Aubrey for some time, in silence. Aubrey felt as if he were being sized up for dissection. 'It is as I thought, then.'

Caroline and George looked at Aubrey. He shrugged, minutely. 'Dr Romellier? On another matter, we need to ask for your help.'

'My help?' Dr Romellier smiled a little, but Aubrey was concerned at the wintriness of that smile. 'What is it you want?'

'We need to get to the airship hangar.'

'The place with all the noise?'

'You haven't been there?'

'Not recently. They said they wanted my help to design ships with more lift.' He scowled. 'The fools. I could have created a profile that would save them money and make their airships the most dynamic in the world. I discard them, now. I will leave, soon, and go where I am appreciated.' He glared at the wall closest the hangar.

Caroline cleared her throat.

'Dr Romellier, if you help us, we can help you.'

'How can you help me?'

'You want to go where you are appreciated. I happen to know that Lady Fitzwilliam is equipping an expedition to the Arctic and is looking for expert colleagues.'

Aubrey stared. This was news to him.

'Lady Fitzwilliam,' Dr Romellier repeated.

'We're seeing her this weekend, you know,' Caroline said.

Aubrey saw where Caroline was leading. He chimed in. 'We could talk to her, if you like, if you're interested in being part of her expedition. Or I could introduce you and you could ask her yourself.'

'So, if I get you into this hangar, you'll introduce me to your mother.'

'Gladly.'

Dr Romellier studied Aubrey again, in the same clinical manner as before. He nodded, once, like an axe chopping. 'I'll take you straightaway.'

'Steady on, old chap,' George said. 'Don't you want to know what's going on?'

'Politics, I imagine,' Dr Romellier said. 'Parlour games for the rich and idle. I have more important things to think about.'

'Hear that, Aubrey?' George said. '"Parlour games for the rich and idle".'

Aubrey ignored this. 'We're grateful, Dr Romellier.'

Dr Romellier took them to the gap between his hut and the next. Wedged there was a dogcart, low, twowheeled, with battered wooden panels.

The ornithologist dragged a tarpaulin out of the cart. 'Here. Lie down. I'll get you in.'

Aubrey eyed the cart, then Dr Romellier. 'Do you often use this?'

'Often enough,' the ornithologist said. 'As you saw, I have many deliveries. Those in charge here say they can't spare anyone to help me, so I help myself. Get in, get in.'

Aubrey climbed into the back of the cart with Caroline and George. With some awkwardness, they managed to arrange themselves.

Dr Romellier inspected them. 'Don't make a sound.' He drew the tarpaulin.

The heavy cloth smelled of paint. Aubrey concentrated on taking shallow breaths as the cart jolted and began to move. It rumbled along easily enough, but he was glad that the journey was only a short one as every stone and every bump seemed to be magnified by the lack of springs. He could hear Dr Romellier's heavy breathing and the noises of the hangar growing louder and louder.

In the dim light under the tarpaulin he gave George and Caroline the thumbs up just as the cart swung around and bumped once, hard. From the smoother rolling, Aubrey guessed that they'd reached the concrete apron in front of the hangar. The noise intensified again, with great whooshing sounds overlapping with the hiss and pungent smell of welding. Chains were rattling in the near distance, with men shouting over the top of loud grinding.

The cart juddered over metal grates and past something that hummed with the relentless sound of an electrical motor. Aubrey heard a door roll shut and then they were in relative quiet.

The tarpaulin was dragged back. Aubrey blinked in the harsh, actinic light. Three men were standing next to Dr Romellier. Two held revolvers. The other was Gabriel, the leader of the Sons of Victor.

Dr Romellier scowled at Gabriel. 'Dr Tremaine was right,' he said in Gallian, 'these thieves came to steal my monograph.'

Gabriel slapped the ornithologist on the back and grinned. 'Don't worry. We'll take care of them.'

Aubrey heard Gabriel's threat, but only distantly. He was still stunned at what Dr Romellier had said.

Dr Tremaine. He's mixed up in all this!

Aubrey feverishly began to rethink all his suppositions and assumptions about the events of the past few weeks – but this time factoring in the malevolent involvement of the ex-Sorcerer Royal of Albion.

Things were much, much worse than he'd thought.

GABRIEL SAT ON A WOODEN CHAIR, HUNCHED OVER, ELBOWS on his knees. His cold eyes examined them.

They were in an office in one enclosed corner of the vast space of the hangar. Through the slatted blinds on the windows, Aubrey could make out the beginnings of a new dirigible where the previous one had been destroyed.

The furniture in the office seemed as if it was intended to send the message that this was a no-nonsense facility. The desk, the shelves, the cabinets were all made of grey metal. The only wooden item of furniture was Gabriel's chair.

Aubrey spent some time kicking himself for dragging his friends into danger like this, then quickly moved onto trying to think of a way out. He could kick himself some more later – if they managed to escape.

Aubrey was aware of the two gunmen standing behind their chairs, and he was sure they weren't there for moral support. He opened his mouth and Gabriel pointed a finger, interrupting him. 'If you begin a spell,' he said in Albionish, 'Leon will hit you very hard. Then he will gag you with a filthy cloth.'

'No,' Aubrey said and he mentally tore up his first plan, 'no magic. I just want to know why we've suddenly become enemies. We've proved that we're friends to Marchmaine.'

'And friends to Holmland. You've been seen with von Stralick.'

'The diplomat?'

'Do not play the fool with me. We all know he is a spy.'

'So? Lutetia is always full of spies.'

'The situation has changed.'

'The political situation?'

'It is on a slippery slope now. No-one can stop the government from falling.' He stood. 'Guard them,' he said to his two men.

'Wait,' Aubrey said in Gallian. He gestured at the men behind him. 'Have you told them what's going on? I think they deserve to know that they're going to be turned into wild beasts.'

One of the men behind him shifted and spoke, his voice deep but uncertain. 'Gabriel?'

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. 'Do not listen to him, Leon,' he said in Gallian. 'He knows nothing.'

Aubrey continued in Gallian, giving the guards every opportunity to hear. 'How many men have been transformed so far? Ten? More? I'd think you'd be running out of volunteers by now, which would mean you're not telling the poor souls what they're in for.'

Aubrey felt it then – a ponderous magical pulse. He flinched at the raw power, and even the brick dust in his pocket, inert though it had become, trembled. The others in the small room also seemed to feel something for they all blinked and looked around uncertainly.

An eerie silence fell in the hangar outside. To Aubrey it was like those odd moments in a crowded room where, inexplicably, everyone stops talking at once.

Then an ear-splitting roar split the silence apart.

Gabriel made for the door. 'Do not let them escape!' he barked over his shoulder.

The roaring was huge and bestial, and came from the road outside the hangar. As it grew, it seemed to spawn a chorus of terrified shouts. Then the scream of tearing sheetmetal added to the pandemonium. Running figures flitted past the slatted blinds.

For the guards' benefit, Aubrey continued to speak in Gallian, raising his voice over the noise. 'It sounds as if they've lost another guard,' he said to Caroline.

She answered in the same language, raising an eyebrow to show she understood. 'It's awful what's happened to them. I don't know how their commanders could do it.'

George knew that something was afoot. He nodded vigorously, doing his best to help.

The guard behind Aubrey clipped him with a meaty hand. 'Tell us what is happening.'

Aubrey rubbed the back of his head. 'You haven't been told? That is very poor.'

Glass shattered nearby and the ground shook, but the corrugated iron outer wall held solid. Aubrey hoped that the guards' imagination would create something much worse than the reality – whatever that was.

'I will see what is happening,' one of the guards said.

'Don't, Leon. We must wait for Gabriel.'

The conversation between the two guards frustrated Aubrey. He couldn't turn around to see their faces, to judge their mood. Their voices were edgy and uncertain, though, and he hoped to be able to turn that to his advantage.

Leon apparently wasn't impressed by his comrade's point of view. 'I'm tired of Gabriel. He's grown too sure of himself. I wonder about his commitment to Marchmaine.'

'But Gabriel is the leader of the Sons of Victor! How can you doubt his loyalty?'

Aubrey decided that Leon was rather more cynical than his comrade. Silently, he cheered him on.

'Where did Gabriel come from?' Leon asked. 'He claims he was born and raised in Chrétien, but I never knew him and I spent my life there before joining the movement.'

Through the glass, Aubrey could see that panic was rife in the hangar. Men armed with rifles were running toward the angry roaring. A lorry raced through an open door, almost colliding with four men who were carrying a large girder. As good a time as any, Aubrey thought. He caught Caroline and George's attention. He nodded very, very slightly and eased himself around in his chair, ready to leap at the arguing guards.

One guard – tall, beefy, perfect for the job – shifted and pointed his revolver directly at Aubrey. A distant part of his brain found it interesting to note that it was a Holmland military pistol, an Albers Special. He'd heard it was a very efficient firearm and, staring right into the huge barrel, he was willing to accept this without any further proof.

'Do not do anything,' Leon said in thickly accented Albionish.

'You speak Albionish!' George said.

Leon sneered. 'Do not think I am stupid, just because I am a guard.'

While Aubrey would normally have enjoyed pursuing the discussion of stereotypes and assumptions, it was at that moment that gunfire sounded from outside the hangar. Immediately the roaring on the other side of the corrugated iron rose to a furious bellowing. The ground shook, then, with a deafening crash, the wall bulged as something huge slammed into it. The metal table and cabinet against the wall were hurled across the room.

Aubrey dived to one side and felt the metal table whistle past his head. He hit the floor to see that Leon and the other guard weren't so lucky. Standing as they were, the table struck them squarely, followed by the cabinet.

Caroline dragged him to his feet. 'Are they all right?' he asked.

George quickly inspected them. 'They're breathing. Some blood, not much.'

'What's happening?' Caroline asked, but Aubrey didn't have to answer. The wall boomed again, but this time it gave way, screeching and splitting open under the impact. A clawed foot the size of a cow thrust into the office. It was scaled and a dull, muddy green-brown. Aubrey clapped his hands over his ears as they were assaulted by more frenzied bellowing that rocked the whole office. The foot jerked, stuck in the split metal, shaking the entire wall as if it were made of paper. Then it withdrew, nearly dragging the side of the building with it.

Aubrey, George and Caroline stood staring through the gap and the mountainous shape that was moving away from them. Twenty feet or more tall, it stalked on two tree-trunk legs, swinging a massive tail like a club. Gunfire only seemed to annoy it. It moved like an avalanche toward its attackers, pursuing men who wisely decided that fleeing was the best course of action.

Stunned, Aubrey was glad to see that the creature wasn't interested in them. The size of the monster!

'Another ancient Lutetian animal?' Caroline said. 'A dinosaur?'

He let out a long breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. A creature from the very dawn of time, a king of beasts, to be sure. To think that it had once been a man. 'It means that the Heart of Gold must be near.'

'In the hands of another poor unfortunate by now,' George said. He picked his way over scattered papers until he could peer out of the hole in the wall. 'If we want to leave, this would be a good time.'

George stepped through. Aubrey followed Caroline. His jacket snagged on a splinter of metal and it tore when he tugged it away. His heart was still racing, and this time he thought it had good reason.

Outside, he paused. The strong, magical beat that signalled that the Heart of Gold was close rolled over him. Without realising it, he swayed. 'Over there.' He pointed across the road to a workshop. The large double doors were rolled back and Aubrey could see three lorries parked inside.

The dinosaur was stalking with murderous intent in the direction of the airfield. Panicked masses of men were streaming across the tarmac, and the sounds of small arms fire was continuous. The sole dirigible had been floating close to the ground, having been fuelled and provisioned ready to take the Heart of Gold to Marchmaine, Aubrey surmised. Now, it was endeavouring to pull away, despite its lines still being anchored. In the middle of the confusion, enough discipline remained that the lines were being systematically loosed, while the engines of the airship were firing up to assist its ascent.

Aubrey readied himself to lead the way and dash across the road to the workshop, but before he could take a step, a titanic blast erupted in the hangar behind him. Aubrey was flung to the ground. He lay there, for a moment, his ears ringing, and watched as the air was replaced with a cloud of dust and smoke. George and Caroline had been by his side, but he couldn't see them anywhere. He rolled onto one elbow and desperately tried to get up.

George appeared, coughing and shaking his head, waving both arms so it appeared as if he were swimming through the smoke. He helped Aubrey to his feet. 'Things are getting well out of hand here,' he managed to say over the roar of a massive blaze taking hold in the hangar. 'A good time to be careful.' A dull thud and a further, smaller explosion made them both duck, but apart from a shrill whistling, nothing came their way.

Caroline emerged from the smoke and Aubrey's rising panic settled. 'Von Stralick's here.'

'What?' Aubrey blinked through the drifts of oily smoke.

'Von Stralick. I just saw him at the head of a band of soldiers, fleeing the hangar and heading toward the airfield.'

'Ah. That'd be who set off the explosion, then.' Aubrey couldn't imagine the Marchmainers blowing up their own facility. Unless they did it by accident.

They hurried across the road and into the workshop. Aubrey's nerves jangled with every step, as he expected to be confronted either by angry Marchmainers or the Holmlanders who'd blown up the hangar. Neither was a desirable encounter.

Aubrey almost ran into the wall of the workshop, so thick was the smoke. With George and Caroline close, he found the door. Another magic pulse struck him, and he had to steady himself against its power. It's definitely coming from in there, he thought, and gestured to his friends. He pushed the door back on its rollers and, heart racing, he stepped inside.

A let-down. It was a motor pool or repair shop, chains hanging from rafters, racks of spare parts covering the walls. Beyond the three lorries was another, jacked up and with its engine cover open.

Aubrey's gaze slid over these mundane details and locked on the rear wall of the workshop. It was unlike the plywood-lined walls on the other sides. It was a heavy, riveted steel barrier that wouldn't have been out of place on a battleship. The magical waves were rolling straight through it. 'Strongroom,' Aubrey said.

'A strongroom's not much use with an open door,' Caroline noted.

Aubrey nodded. 'George, can you make sure no-one comes in from outside?'

'Will do, old man.'

'Caroline –'

'I'm coming with you.'

'You're coming with me.' Aubrey saw by the set of her face that arguing would be useless. 'All right. But stay behind me and be ready to run.'

'You be ready to run, too.'

Aubrey jumped. A groan had come through the open door of the strongroom.

'Someone's in there,' Caroline said.

He nodded, not wanting to speak with a throat was suddenly dry. He licked his lips, then inched through the doorway.

'Saltin!'

The Gallian airman was sitting on a wooden stool in a windowless room lined with metal bars. His face was sweating and contorted. Another groan burst through his gritted teeth and his eyes rolled back in his head. Magic was dense in the air, strong enough to make Aubrey dizzy.

With bone-white hands, Saltin clutched the Heart of Gold in his lap.

Saltin was suffering. Aubrey reached out a hand, but then let it fall. It was clear that the Marchmaine plight had become desperate. Perhaps Gabriel had run out of volunteers and dupes. Saltin, the poor fool, had stepped forward and now here he was, tormented as the artefact wreaked its power on him.

'Saltin!' he shouted but the airman didn't respond. His head sagged, then lolled backward, the whites of his eyes showing.

Aubrey drew back and bumped into Caroline. Her horrified gaze was on the Gallian airman as his features began to writhe like warmed clay, twisting in the grip of the ancient magic. He gave a wretched cry, the whimper of an animal caught in a trap.

'Wait by the door,' Aubrey said to Caroline. Wideeyed, she nodded.

Aubrey took a deep breath. It had come to this. All the actions, events and happenings of the last two weeks had led to this – Monsieur Caron and his letters, the Marchmaine independence movement, Bertie's genealogy, Dr Romellier, the desires, wants and wishes of so many people had been tumbled together, caught up in the flood. A thousand futures radiated out from this point, each one dependent on what Aubrey did next.

The moment was his. Every moment was his, he realised, every instant of his life, but this one was momentous, with the fate of nations hinging on it.

And it was up to him. Why not? he thought. I can mess things up as well as anybody can.

Aubrey went to Saltin's shuddering form on the stool. Hoping he wasn't too late, he took the Heart of Gold from the airman.

Aubrey had expected a struggle, but the artefact came easily from Saltin's grasp. As soon as it left his hands, the airman slumped to one side and fell off the stool.

'See to him,' Aubrey croaked, then he staggered. The world blurred, and the floor beneath his feet seemed to tilt. He tripped and stumbled until he collided with the the strongroom wall. Sagging, his breath came in ragged, painful gasps.

The Heart of Gold was a storm of magical power in his hands.

Aubrey had hoped his magical talents and training would help him endure the power of the artefact. If this were true, he pitied all of the untrained unfortunates who'd held it, for it was as if he were being taken apart.

His throat felt as if it were being crushed by a giant hand. He hunched over as a hundred minute spasms ran through his body. His teeth and bones ached while redhot needles pricked every inch of his skin. He shook, convinced that he was about to be turned inside out.

But his hands, where they held the softly glowing golden heart, did not suffer at all.

A desperate core of rationality struggled to make sense of what was happening to him, cataloguing the sensations so he could ponder them later. Then, with despair, he realised that it wasn't just his body that was being punished, it was his soul.

As soon as he'd taken the precious object from Saltin, Bernard's protection spell shattered into a million pieces. His soul was wrenched about by the torrent of magical power that was coursing through his body. It flapped in the wind like a loose sail, threatening at any moment to detach itself and be whirled away.

Aubrey choked, then coughed and snatched a breath of air. He trembled, and he groped, blinded, scrabbling to hold himself together.

'Aubrey! What have you done?'

Caroline's hands were on his shoulders, but the sensation was distant and muffled. 'The chapel,' he said with a tongue like a block of wood. 'We must get to the chapel.'

She dug her fingers into his shoulders. He lolled helplessly in her hands and flashes of agony burst like fireworks in front of his eyes. 'You fool,' she growled. 'This is no time to be a hero.'

Even though he was concentrating on holding on to his soul, Aubrey found an instant to be offended by her remark. 'If not now, when?' he managed to slur, then he decided he was better off with his eyes closed. It was too much effort to keep them open.

Irregular waves of magic marched through his body, each bringing a new taste of agony. He hadn't realised that pain had various flavours, but he was rapidly being introduced to the variety of ways a body could hurt: burning, stinging, aching, hammering, searing, cutting. Each overlapped with the last, melding and then separating into fresh ordeals.

He tried to remember a spell, something to help, but he found it difficult to organise any sort of coherent thought. Everything he tried to piece together splintered and was blown away by the magical inferno that consumed him.

A different voice. 'I'll take him.' A strong arm under his shoulders. George.

Aubrey opened his eyes. 'Thank you.'

George studied him. 'You're in trouble?'

'Yes. Very much so.' He jerked, hissed, then ground his teeth together. 'The chapel,' he whispered. 'And contact Inspector Paul.'

'You can drive him in one of those lorries,' Caroline said. 'What's it like outside?'

'A pitched battle. Marchmainers against Holmlanders would be my guess. Oh, and that dinosaur is rampaging about, too.'

'It sounds as if we have a diversion.'

The world swooped and Aubrey realised, dimly, that he'd been picked up and slung over George's shoulder. Every step was an explosion of pain echoing through his skull. He focused on his soul, clinging to it more with stubbornness than art.

Aubrey slumped on the long bench seat of the lorry. He could hear George and Caroline arguing but couldn't make out their words over the throbbing of the engine. Or was it the engine? He opened his eyes. George then disappeared into the strongroom. He came back carrying Saltin. He loaded the airman into the back of the lorry before leaping into the driver's seat.

'Didn't we start this way?' Aubrey mumbled. 'Except it was an ornithopter. And I was driving. Flying.'

'Easy, old man,' George said. 'Don't talk. Save your strength.'

'Caroline,' Aubrey croaked.

George ground the gears and the lorry started to move. 'She's gone to get her mother away from here.'

'Shouldn't've let her leave.'

George was silent for a minute, his brow furrowed with concentration as he manoeuvred the lorry through the doorway. It emerged into the smoke billowing from the hangar. Through tear-filled eyes, Aubrey saw that half the hangar had collapsed, while fire was raging through the rest. The gunfire of a sizeable skirmish hammered through the smoke.

George stamped on the accelerator and the lorry spat gravel behind it. It surged through the smoke, away from the tumult and toward the gate.

'I didn't let her leave,' George shouted over the scream of the motor. 'You know perfectly well that you can't get Caroline to do anything she doesn't want to do.'

Aubrey realised he was nodding, not in agreement with George, but in time to the magical pulse coming from the Heart of Gold. It rolled through him, ancient and majestic, a power from a time long gone.

His mouth was difficult to work. 'Not you. Me. I shouldn't have let her leave.'

The gatehouse was empty. The lorry rocketed past and George threw it into a screeching right-hand turn. Lutetia lay ahead.

'No, old man.' The engine was like a saw on Aubrey's skull. 'Caroline is someone you shouldn't ever let leave.'

Twenty-

Two

THE TRIP BACK TO THE CITY WAS A NIGHTMARE. Aubrey would have been flung around like a rag doll if it weren't for the restraining arm George dropped across his chest whenever they shrieked around corners. The little space of the lorry's cabin became Aubrey's world, a noisy cocoon smelling of hot oil and sweat.

The Heart of Gold was fat and heavy in his lap, a reef he'd foundered on. Helpless, he lapsed into an internal world of struggle and torment.

'Nearly there, old man.' George sounded as if he were speaking through a mask. Aubrey couldn't answer. All that was stopping his soul being drawn to the true death was his refusal to let go.

Thoughts flitted around the edges of his mind, splinters of arguments he'd had with himself, remains of desires, dreams, ambitions. Distracted, his attention staggered from one to the other, never settling on one for long.

He grunted as the pain intensified. While he was attending to his soul, his body was being pulled by the power of the Heart of Gold. With its primeval magic, it was trying to change his physical self, wrenching it into patterns long gone from the face of the earth. His bones creaked, yearning to reshape themselves along strange, ancient lines.

He dug in. It was no good holding onto his soul if his body was consumed.

Accustomed as he was to changes in his being, he drew on his experience. It helped him resist the transformational waves that pulsed through through every inch of him.

Nevertheless, a particularly sharp jab made him hiss and open his eyes. He was surprised when he saw that night was close. Shadows of the houses stretched across the road ahead. They'd reached the city.

'Steady on, old man,' George said. 'I'll get you there.'

Aubrey closed his eyes and sought for the strength to endure.

'WE'RE HERE.'

Aubrey jerked and opened his eyes. Black shapes skittered across his vision, vague almost-decipherable sigils that frightened him badly. He blinked and they swirled away. 'George?'

'Easy, now. Let's get you out of the lorry.'

Aubrey did his best, but without his friend, he would have been stuck there. George lifted him out and he was grateful to feel a breeze on his skin.

'Come on, now,' George said. 'We have to hurry.'

'Hurry?'

'We crashed through a blockade or two. And I don't think we're meant to park here, either.'

With an effort, Aubrey lifted his head. They were right outside the processional doors of the Cathedral of Our Lady. The lorry had mounted the footpath, glancing off a lamp post that was now leaning at something rather less than vertical. The front fender had rammed the bluestone newel post of the stairs. He was grateful that the cathedral hadn't faded like some of the other churches. He wondered if it wasn't because it was closer to the centre of Gallia and so was holding together longer. It was a fascinating thought, but he couldn't hold onto it. It wandered away and was lost in the jumble that his mind had become.

'We crashed?' he asked.

'You weren't paying attention. Other things to worry about, I imagine.' George slipped his arm under Aubrey's armpit and lifted. The world reeled and it took Aubrey a moment to realise he was cradled in his friend's arms. His head was too heavy to hold up and it lolled on his chest. His stomach churned. Time swelled and stretched; hours and instants were indistinguishable. The sounds of the city were woolly and indistinct, as if the normal world was only barely intersecting with his.

Hold on, he told himself.

Three police officers were running either toward him or away from him. He couldn't tell as their shapes seemed to inflate and collapse in an erratic rhythm. He thought he could hear shouts and whistles, but the echoes confused him, coming before they should.

The day was fading.

He still held the Heart of Gold. It sat on his chest and was as heavy as the world. Underneath its immensity, he struggled for breath. He couldn't understand how George could lift both it and him.

'Not long now,' George grunted.

'No.'

George grimaced and staggered up the stairs. He pushed the door open with his hip. Aubrey thought the heavy timber was going to close on his head, but George caught it with his shoulder, grunting, and shoved it aside.

Inside the cathedral it was cool and dark. Candle flames danced as Aubrey tried to make sense of the angles and shapes. Pews, windows on high, columns, stone blocks in the floor. They flitted and changed places as George pounded along the aisle like time itself. Aubrey anticipated every footfall, wincing in advance at the pain he knew would follow, but when it came it was always worse than he'd predicted.

He had vague impressions of people coming close before hurrying away. George didn't speak and Aubrey assumed he, too, was saving his breath.

They lurched out of the church proper and a figure stood in front of them. 'Sister Claire,' George gasped. 'We've brought it back.'

Sister Claire smiled. Serene and patient, Aubrey felt her concern wash over him. 'We know. We felt it coming.'

She disappeared. George groaned and followed her.

The Chapel of the Heart. The alcove. A nun, sitting, hands outstretched. A lamp over her head. Her wimple, touched with light.

'Sister Anne,' Aubrey whispered. His voice sounded strange in his ears, as if it were strained through wire.

Sister Claire spoke. Aubrey heard it as the ringing of bells. 'We've kept our vigil. Someone has waited here, ever since it left.'

Aubrey eased himself from George's grasp, but was grateful when his friend helped him stand. The Heart of Gold beat, slow and soothing now, and the pain vanished. It went so abruptly, so unexpectedly, that his knees buckled and George had to catch him. 'You'll be all right, old man.'

Aubrey wanted to tell him that he was more than all right, but words were thick and clumsy, too big for his tongue to manage. His gaze fell on the Heart of Gold in his hands. Its presence was now restful, not damaging. Aubrey blinked, confused, when it blurred while he looked at it. He tried squinting, but it was like looking through rain-streaked glass. The Heart of Gold eluded his focus, shifting in ways he could not follow.

Suddenly, his surroundings whirled away. Images flashed through his mind, one after the other, as if a cosmic art gallery were being drawn past him at an everincreasing rate.

At first, he saw wilderness, vast forests undisturbed by humanity. He was puzzled – they sported strange, exotic, almost tropical vegetation, lush with vines and tall palmlike trees. Dozens, hundreds of these images rolled past, and the scenes gradually changed: floods, fires, creatures both gargantuan and bizarre. It was then that Aubrey realised the landscape was that of many, many years ago.

The images streamed past him. He watched, amazed and eager to know more. People came, primitive but recognisable. Family groups, clustering together against the wild, becoming a settlement. Farming, hunting, living on the edge of a broad and pristine river. Then moving, crossing to an island in the middle of the river when threatened by a roving band of brigands. A village grew there, protected.

Faster, the images flew. The village extended, the wilderness receded, and the village became a town. Churches and buildings of stone replacing wooden structures, and the first bridge spanned the river. Before long, Aubrey understood he was looking at the birth of Lutetia.

Landmarks appeared – towers, cathedrals – the town grew into a city, and the city became a nation, teeming with people and their lives. Aubrey was taken through happiness and sorrow, loss and triumph. He was shown wars, families, grief, loss, famines, celebrations and progress. He was given Lutetia: the City of Love, the City of Lights, the City of Art, the foremost city of the nation of Gallia.

He held the Heart of Gold in front of him, the true and living heart of Lutetia and Gallia. It was as light as thought. He took a step and placed it in the hands of Sister Anne in the alcove.

Then he collapsed.

WHEN AUBREY WOKE, THE WORLD WAS GREY. HE MUSED on that for some time before realising that he was gazing up at a ceiling. He could see the cornices, where the ceiling met the wall. They were moulded in a geometric pattern. Classical?

He considered this as time passed. It was interesting, in a vague and comforting way.

Some time later, at the edge of his vision, he could see an electric light. It was an elaborate mechanism, all brass rods and glass shades shaped like upsidedown Marmeluke hats. He supposed it was in the centre of the ceiling, but he couldn't be certain without moving his head. For some reason, he was reluctant to do that.

Time drifted. He remembered that he'd seen a similar electric light in the apartment he'd let from Madame Calvert. After a dreamy while, he decided that this was probably the same one and that meant he was in his own room. By and by, he concluded that the sheets and blankets meant he was in a bed. His bed, in all likelihood.

The depressing greyness worried him, though. He assumed he could see more if he moved his head, but the prospect of seeing more of such a gloomy world was not an inviting one. Sometimes a small disheartening vista was preferable to a large disheartening vista. Dimly, he thought that may be a clever notion, but he wasn't cheered by it at all.

'Aubrey?'

It took him a moment, but he eventually recognised George's voice. It was warming to hear it. He thought it would be good to hear it again, so he waited.

After a time, George's face swam into view. He was haggard. 'Aubrey? Are you there?'

For a moment, the question held Aubrey frozen. He was poised, balanced between two worlds, like an underwater swimmer looking up at the sunlit world beyond the surface.

Then, with a rush he rose and embraced the world.

He lifted his head. 'George.' His voice felt thick and unused. 'How long have I been like this?'

George stared for a moment. Then he turned away and coughed. When he came back, he was wiping his nose with a large red handkerchief. 'Almost three days, old man. You've given us quite a scare. Quite a scare.'

'Three days?' Aubrey let his head fall back to the pillow. He tried to remember what he'd experienced after he'd collapsed in the Chapel of the Heart, but nothing came to him.

'The doctors said it was a coma, and wanted to move you to a hospital. I wouldn't let them, and Madame Calvert helped us.'

Aubrey felt as if George was throwing darts at him, so much information was coming so quickly. 'Three days? Madame Calvert? Us?'

The grey world disappeared. Light flooded into the room and Aubrey held up a hand, wincing. He squinted at the window and saw a silhouetted figure drawing back the drapes. 'Caroline?'

'She's kept vigil here, old man. We both have.'

Caroline came and sat on the bed. She wore a simple white blouse and a black skirt. Her hair fell to her neck. She smiled, and Aubrey's world was brighter. Living seemed like a desirable outcome. 'How do you feel?'

'I feel wonderful.' Weak and wrung-out, and glad to be feeling anything at all.

She raised an eyebrow.

He rallied. 'Relatively wonderful, I mean. Considering the alternative. I could be a wild boar by now. Or something.'

'Or dead,' George pointed out.

Aubrey winced. 'Indeed.' He glanced down and saw he was wearing pyjamas. He was glad they were his best pair. 'I really feel quite well. What time is it?'

George consulted his pocket watch. 'Just after seven. In the morning.'

Aubrey was glad for George's addendum. It saved him having to ask. 'I don't suppose there's a chance of some breakfast?'

George's face split in a wide grin. 'I'm sure Madame Calvert will whip up a lovely tray for you.'

George fairly bounded for the door and galloped down the stairs.

Caroline sat and studied him for some time while he fidgeted. 'He was very worried about you,' she said, finally.

Aubrey ran his hands along the coverlet. It really was fine work. He wondered if Madame Calvert could purchase one for him to take back to Albion. 'He does get like that. Good man.'

'Yes. You're lucky to have him.'

Caroline looked towards the window. The light surrounded her with a glow that Aubrey thought was beautiful, but unnecessary, like a gold frame on a masterpiece.

He touched his chest as he felt pain again, but instantly he realised this was different. It was desire's touch to the heart, a pain both piercing and delicate. Caroline was so extravagantly beautiful, so formidable in intellect and so dismissive of all of it. She humbled him. How could he ever think that he could attract someone so exquisite?

'Lucky?' he said. 'I should say so. Without George, I would have been in very serious trouble any number of times.'

She looked thoughtful. 'You seem to inspire loyalty.'

'I do?' Aubrey was taken aback, but flattered as well. His spirits rose. 'Well, my father, Sir Darius, his troops were tremendously loyal to him, you know. And in politics, his supporters are steadfast, despite his setbacks, of which he's had a few.' He paused. 'You know, I don't do that with anyone but you.'

'What?'

'Babble.'

'You'd best learn not to, then.' She stood. 'Your parents will be here in a few days.'

Aubrey was still wondering at the first half of her statement.' Parents?'

'Yes. You know, Lady Rose and Sir Darius.'

He did his best to banter in Aubrey fashion. 'Oh, those parents. Sorry, you caught me on the hop. I was going through my list of parents one by one. I would have got to those two eventually.' He frowned. 'They haven't come to see me?'

Caroline studied him for a moment. 'You told us not to let them know about what happened to you.'

'I did?'

'Just after we brought you back here. You don't remember?'

'I'm afraid not.' Aubrey didn't remember, but he could believe it. Was it a streak of stubbbornness or a determination to be independent that made him do things like that?

'George and I argued about it, back and forth, changing our minds and arguing again.'

'While I lay here?'

'We whispered.'

'Ah.'

They shared a smile. 'I'm glad to see you're well again,' she said.

Aubrey sought for something to say that wasn't trite. Before he could, George bustled in. He carried an invalid tray laden with enough mouth-watering delicacies to feed an army of valetudinarians. 'Breakfast!'

They shared the platters of pastries, breads and fruits that Madame Calvert had prepared. Aubrey learned that Inspector Paul had visited several times to check on his state of health. He'd reported that the river had begun flowing again, and that all the landmarks had regained their solidity. The earth tremors had ceased, as well.

'Gallia is itself once more?' Aubrey asked. He sipped a cup of good coffee. It tasted like heaven.

'More or less,' George answered. 'Political shenanigans all over the place, according to the papers.'

'The government has strengthened its position,' Caroline said. 'After the incident at the airfield, the press has rallied behind the Prime Minister Giraud and the alliance with Albion.'

George nodded. 'The Holmland government has repudiated the actions of the saboteurs. The Elektor claims that they were acting without orders, renegades of the worst sort.'

'Does anyone believe that?'

Caroline snorted, beautifully. 'Officially? Yes. In reality, of course not.'

'What about the Marchmainers?'

'Nothing in the papers. And no sign of Dr Romellier either. He's vanished.'

Aubrey had a strong suspicion that Dr Romellier would be on his way by now to join Dr Tremaine, although Aubrey had no idea what the renegade magician would want with an ornithologist. Wheels within wheels, Dr Tremaine. Wheels within wheels.

George pointed at Aubrey with a jam spoon. 'You'd be proud of me, old man. I've been practising my Gallian, with Caroline's help.'

She inclined her head toward Aubrey. 'It filled in the time, although I despair of George's accent.'

'Don't care about my accent. At least I can talk and read it rather better. Don't feel so much of a duffer.'

'Marchmainers?' Aubrey prompted.

'Ah, yes. The independence movement has distanced itself from the Sons of Victor, wouldn't you say, Caroline?'

'As fast as they could. Once it became clear exactly who had the Heart of Gold, it was the only thing they could do to salvage something from the wreck.'

Aubrey put down a cup that suddenly seemed very heavy. He was tired. 'They've lost their chance. They won't be able to regroup for some time, and by then war will have broken out.'

George frowned. 'D'you still think it's coming?'

'It's more and more certain every day. Holmland's machinations here in Lutetia show that it's not giving up on its plans to dominate the Continent.' He shuddered.

'Are you all right, Aubrey?' Caroline asked.

'I was just thinking about the war. And wondering if we can do anything to stop it.'

'It may be inevitable,' she said slowly. 'Nations are notoriously stupid. But it wouldn't be right to throw our hands up and say that to resist would be futile.'

'Agreed,' Aubrey said. 'We must do what we can.'

'That means going to the embassy ball on Saturday,' George said.

Aubrey groaned. 'Do we have to?'

'Solidarity with our good ally, old man. It's important.'

Aubrey appealed to Caroline for help. She looked back at him, evenly, and smiled. 'I agree with George.'

Aubrey blinked. Was that an opportunity? 'You've convinced me. And since you have, will you do me the honour of accompanying me?'

Aubrey saw Caroline trying to follow that twisted logic and becoming more and more suspicious. 'I –' he began.

'No. Don't say anything more. Don't mess it up.' She pointed at him. 'Yes. I will go with you to the ball. Pick me up at eight.'

Caroline bent. When she straightened she had a bundle in her hands. 'Your grandmother's letters. Mother kept them safe for you.'

'She's unharmed?'

'Safe and well. When I reached the tower, they were on the verge of leaving, after hearing the explosions at the airfield. I guided them through the woods until we reached a small village. We negotiated a wagon ride with a farmer. Monsieur Caron left us at St Charles Station, saying he had urgent business out of the country. I took Mother home.' She looked at him evenly, as if daring him to challenge her recount as anything more than a stroll through the countryside.

'The tower?'

'Still there in the woods near the airfield. Maurice has taken up residence there and fancies himself as a country gentleman, I think.'

She left. Aubrey heard her chatting with Madame Calvert, then the door closing behind her.

'Success, old man,' George said. He was eating a peach. 'A well-planned campaign, a few false starts, lost battle or two, but ultimately you were triumphant.'

'Caroline isn't a military campaign, George.'

'Well, it's taken you a while to realise that.'

'Yes, I know, not everything in life can be reduced to tactics and strategy.'

'Bad form, that. People are people, not pieces to be moved around at your will.'

Aubrey squirmed.

'Are you all right?' George asked.

'I just remembered something I have to do. Very soon, too.' As soon as he regained some strength, he'd see about getting Caroline back into the university. Perhaps after the ball? He'd appreciate having her near until then. To help his recovery, he assured himself.

George stood. 'I'll let you have some time by yourself. You look as if you need it.'

'Thank you, George.' Aubrey nodded. 'And thank you, George. For everything.'

'Don't mention it. Just don't scare me like that again.'

'I'd like to guarantee that, but . . .'

'I understand. Just do what you can.' George took the breakfast tray and went to the door. Then he stopped and stared at the ceiling. 'This embassy ball. I'm not sure if I can be there.'

'Really?' Aubrey brightened. This was better: something trifling, something commonplace. He sat up straighter in the bed. 'You've been summoned to an audience with the King of Oronoko? You've developed a sudden knee injury that will prevent you dancing?'

'No, although I could work on the latter.' George sighed. 'It's Madame Calvert's niece.'

'Ah. You've met her.'

'That's the point. I haven't.' He glanced at Aubrey. 'Been rather busy lately, old man.'

Aubrey laced his fingers on his flannel-clad chest. 'And the problem is?'

'Madame Calvert has been talking about her niece for days. Dropping hints about how clever she is, how good she is at languages and whatnot.'

'And you see this as a bad thing?'

'It strikes me as a bit overdone, as it were. It's as if her niece needs to be promoted, like a new beverage.'

'I see. And you think the reality may be different?'

George shrugged, which made the crockery on the breakfast tray clatter. 'There is that, I suppose. But I'm more worried about what Madame Calvert is saying to her niece about me. I don't want to disappoint the girl.'

Aubrey started to laugh, but stifled it when he saw the misery on his friend's face. 'George, you don't have to worry. You'll be impressive, as always.' He rubbed his forehead. 'Besides, I'd appreciate it if you were there with me.'

'Ah. Of course, old man.' He smiled. 'Well, meeting young women and such is why we came to Lutetia in the first place, isn't it?'

'It's why you came to Lutetia in the first place, George. I had other things to do.'

'Quite.' George cocked an eyebrow. 'I prefer my reason.'

After George closed the door behind him, Aubrey stretched out. He needed to examine his condition.

It didn't take long before his suspicions were confirmed and his good mood evaporated. The psychic battering he'd received from the Heart of Gold had destroyed Monsieur Bernard's shield. Once again, he was balanced between life and death, a limbo land where his hold on his soul could evaporate at any minute.

Aubrey lay on the bed, hands behind his head, and felt sorry for himself. For a time, it was good to feel so bad.

With the cold comfort of hindsight he itemised all the things he should and shouldn't have done, beginning with the ill-starred experiment with death magic.

Gloomy thoughts took up residence. The only future he could see was a depressing one, clinging to a half-life, weak and pained, unable to do magic for fear of making things worse. Caroline would judge him as a shallow, manipulative failure. George would grow tired of his erratic ways. He would be alone.

Inevitably, he moved on to 'It isn't fair', but even as he went through the motions he started to become irritated with himself. He couldn't keep repeating 'Why me?' with any conviction because he knew that his situation was his fault. If he was willing to accept the kudos for his own actions, then he had to be prepared to accept the responsibility when things went poorly.

Self-pity is a warm and comforting blanket, he thought, but I do find it itchy after a while.

He ran through a few spells that had provided a modicum of stability in the past. They helped, somewhat, but Aubrey knew they held no prospect of lasting success. He was back on the treadmill again, researching and experimenting to find a permanent cure for his selfinduced condition.

AUBREY RESTED THAT DAY, AND ALSO ON THURSDAY AND Friday, gathering his strength for the festivities and – after a letter arrived from Duval reminding him of his commitment – for the production of The Buccaneers. George helped him run through his lines, again and again.

In between these sessions, Aubrey wrote a long letter to Prince Albert, detailing their successful finding of Prince Christian's tomb, and giving some indication of the state of affairs in Lutetia. Aubrey decided to leave the other, much more interesting, information until he could discuss it with Bertie, face to face.

He wasn't sure that Gallia was ready for a king again, let alone an Albionite king. He was confident that Bertie wouldn't do anything straightaway, but what would the future hold?

Before leaving for the ball, Madame Calvert made Aubrey and George stand in the entry hall while she inspected them with the eye of a regimental commander.

Aubrey enjoyed formal clothes. The rigmarole of dressing in the stiff-fronted shirt and attaching the starched wing collar was an exercise in dexterity and determination. He'd learned enough to make sure that his white bow tie was tied imperfectly enough so any observer would know it wasn't a pre-tied affair, but one knotted by a real person.

Despite feeling weary from his exertions, he was pleased to pass Madame Calvert's scrutiny. For a moment, however, it seemed as if she were going to make George get dressed all over again.

'This tailcoat hasn't been brushed, has it?' she demanded. Instantly, a clothes brush appeared in her hand. She attacked George with it while she kept up her litany of the sartorial indiscretions he'd committed. He bore it with genial good humour.

'The crease in your trousers, ghastly.' Brush, brush. 'And your waistcoat is crooked. Fix it.' Brush, brush. 'One of the studs is missing from your collar.' Brush, brush, brush.

'Here it is,' George said mildly. He held it up. 'I was hoping you'd help me with it.'

Madame Calvert growled with frustration. The brush disappeared. She took the offending stud and busied herself with attaching the rear of the collar.

Aubrey nearly laughed aloud when George winked at him.

'There,' Madame Calvert said. 'You look almost presentable now.'

George bowed. 'And I'm grateful to you, Madame Calvert. With your care and style, I'm sure you've made a difference.'

She seemed mollified by this. She took George's top hat from the hall table and handed it to him. Aubrey took his and held it in the crook of his arm. 'The cab is here,' she said. 'Now check your cuff links and your shoes before you enter the embassy.' She pierced George with a look. 'I won't be able to watch you all evening, so make sure you take good care of Sophie.'

'I shall.' Aubrey noted that George wore his most dutiful expression.

Madame Calvert stood in front of the mirror. She adjusted the double string of pearls around her neck, then nodded. 'Let us go then.'

Twenty-

Three

THE EVENING WAS BALMY AS THEY ROLLED DOWN Honesty Street in their open carriage. Looking toward the river, Aubrey was glad to see that it was itself again. Steam yachts cruised along, full of sightseers enjoying the lights of Lutetia. Music and laughter wafted from the cafés along the way, with many revellers shouting out their good wishes as the paired greys clipclopped past.

Twice, Madame Calvert asked George for the time, and a little later she wanted the driver to turn around because she'd forgotten her bag. Aubrey gently pointed out it was on the seat next to her.

Madame Calvert's agitation increased the closer they came to her niece's house. It was off All Saints Square, a secluded part of the Crecy district. It was a very wealthy precinct, to judge from the grand, detached houses which were set well back from the street, behind stone or iron fences and well-established gardens.

Aubrey nearly laughed out loud when George saw Sophie Delroy. 'Sometimes, one can be luckier than one deserves,' George murmured from the side of his mouth as they stood at the bottom of the stairs.

Sophie was blonde and petite, with a smile that came as readily and brightly as her laughter. She was a witty and wry observer of Lutetia and Gallia, too. On the trip to the embassy, she entertained them with her views on the Prime Minister, the Assembly and the appalling progress of women's rights in Gallia.

Aubrey was sure that she and Caroline would get on famously.

'And what do you plan to do after you finish school?' Aubrey asked when they rounded the corner into Thriftiness Terrace. He was doing his best in the conversation as George was too flabbergasted to contribute anything useful. Aubrey was pleased that the boot was on the other foot for a change.

'I intend to write for The Sentinel,' she declared, smiling, as they passed the Exposition Tower. It was aglow with electric light. Gulls wheeled around its heights, snapping up insects.

'They don't have any female journalists, do they?'

'They will when I get there.'

George managed to contribute some questions about newspapers and, when he discovered that Sophie was just as intrigued by the agony columns as he was, they chattered away as if they'd known each other for years.

Aubrey sat back, drumming his fingers, until they reached the Hepworth residence.

He leapt out of the carriage before the driver had pulled to a halt. 'Would you like me to come along?' George asked.

'No. Thanks. No thanks. I know the way.'

'Here.' Madame Calvert leaned out of the carriage. 'Your tie is crooked. There.'

Aubrey thanked her and bounded through the doors. He forced himself to wait for the lift rather than rush up the stairs as he thought it might give his heart time to slow. Urbane, he thought. Urbane would be good. He touched his hair as the lift clanked upwards. Debonair would be acceptable. Compliment her on her dress. He crossed the landing to the Hepworth apartment and realised he couldn't remember exiting the lift. Charming. I'll settle for charming. Charming would be satisfactory.

He rang the bell.

When Caroline opened the door, his brain turned to vapour. Dimly, he hoped it wasn't streaming from his ears.

'Don't stand there like that, Aubrey. You look like a wax dummy.'

It was green. The dress was green. White gloves. Very long. Sparkly things around her neck and wrist. Jewels. Her hair was twisty and wrappy and piled up. Shiny, too. With a feather in it.

'Well? Are you coming in?'

She turned and moved inside. Her perfume drifted to him; he nearly gave up and ran away. Steeling himself, he followed her with one aim in mind: not to trip over his own feet.

He abandoned any chance of urbane, debonair or charming. He was happy to aspire to anything better than village idiot, second class.

With some pride, he managed not to bang into any walls. He followed Caroline into the parlour. Along the way from the front door – a journey that seemed to take a strangely indeterminate amount of time – he'd assembled enough of his wits to frame coherent thought and, at a pinch, attempt short sentences. So when he saw Mrs Hepworth in a ball gown, he was able not to goggle. She wore an assembly of blue silk windings that floated and made her look stylishly exotic, and an iridescent turban affair on her head. 'You're coming to the ball?'

'Naturally,' she said with a smile. 'I was going to go with Alphonse Caron, but since he's been called away . . . If you don't mind, I'll accompany you two.'

Aubrey was conscious that Caroline was looking at him. 'Delighted,' he said and wondered why it was so hot in the room.

Caroline arranged a white silk shawl around her shoulders. 'Shall we go?'

Aubrey introduced Madame Calvert and Mrs Hepworth. They chattered, George and Sophie chattered, and Aubrey spent the rest of the journey trying not to stare at Caroline. He was quite proud of his remarks about the weather and decided that for someone with an evaporated brain, he was doing quite well. He gave himself some chance of seeing out the evening without a major social blunder.

Their carriage was stopped a block away from their destination by streets choked with traffic. All Lutetia seemed to be heading toward the social event of the year. A cheery police officer assured them that the line of carriages was moving, and so it proved when, thirty minutes later, they arrived in front of the many-pillared Albion Embassy.

Guards in full uniform stood on either side of the gate. Aubrey noted that they weren't merely ceremonial – their rifles were standard-issue bolt-action Symons, well oiled and maintained. A full colonel inspected invitations of everyone attempting to enter. Aubrey approved of the precautions. Even if the Heart of Gold had been restored, the city was still a hotbed of intrigue and the embassy ball presented a ripe opportunity for mischief on a grand scale.

Their invitations satisfying the colonel, Aubrey offered his arm to Caroline. She placed a gloved hand on his elbow and they walked to the great doorway. Aubrey was sure he was glowing brightly enough to be seen by a low-flying dirigible.

Footmen swarmed about in the foyer of the embassy, periwigged and resplendent in brocade knee breeches. They carried chairs, potted plants, trays of glasses, platters of small mysterious delicacies, and all with an air of utmost dedication. Two appeared from nowhere to take Caroline's shawl and his top hat.

A major-domo announced them as they entered the ballroom, which was the size of a small cricket ground. The ceiling was at least thirty feet overhead, and it was painted with a pastoral scene full of nymphs, shepherds and rather puzzled-looking sheep. A dozen huge chandeliers lit the arena. False columns marched along each wall, soothingly painted in greens and pinks.

Aubrey enjoyed how people watched their entrance, whispering to each other and wondering who the handsome couple was.

'They're looking at the people behind us,' Caroline murmured.

Aubrey was about to protest when he heard the major-domo announce the Prince and Princess of Antioch. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the gorgeous silk garments of the Middle Eastern royalty and shrugged. 'They should be looking at you.'

She dimpled. 'That was a very straightforward compliment, Aubrey. Thank you.'

He blinked. He supposed it had been. No guile, no subterfuge, no elaborate courtly gestures. Perhaps he was better at this than he thought.

He saw Caroline's mother whisking Madame Calvert toward a cluster of well-dressed Lutetians, all of whom seemed delighted to see her. He blinked, and tensed for an instant, when a photographer's flash powder went off. The small orchestra on the stage moved into another waltz and the night was under way.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. 'Inspector Paul!' he said with real delight. He stood back and examined the beaming police officer. 'That's a different uniform.'

'Good evening, Miss Hepworth,' Inspector Paul said. 'Yes. This is new and I hope my new salary will be able to pay for it. A full dress uniform for a commander is not cheap.'

'Commander Paul? A promotion? Congratulations.' 'With your assistance, Fitzwilliam. I thank you. When we captured the bulk of the Sons of Victor, my superiors could ignore me no longer.'

Aubrey was pleased. Paul deserved his promotion. Steering a course through the byzantine politics of the Lutetian Police Force was a challenge, and he'd done very well. Aubrey was keen to tell his grandmother that the low opinion she had of the Gallian police was not true of all its members.

A young police officer hurried up and whispered in Paul's ear. From the frowning reaction, Aubrey judged it was not good news.

'Please excuse me, Miss Hepworth, Fitzwilliam. I have a matter to attend to.'

'Something urgent?'

Commander Paul moved a step closer. He stood looking over the sparkling throng. 'The Sons of Victor apparently still have friends. Four of them escaped an hour ago, including Gabriel.'

Aubrey grimaced. 'Good luck.'

Commander Paul disappeared into the crowd.

'A good man,' Caroline said.

'My father always says to surround oneself with good people. You develop a reputation that way as a person of worth.' He peered about the room. 'And speaking of my father, where is he? And George and Sophie. I've lost track of them, too.'

'Let's find them.'

Aubrey then enjoyed a delicious ten minutes wandering through the crowded ballroom with Caroline on his arm. The most important Lutetians were there: politicians, businessmen, high-ranking military officers in full dress uniform, pre-eminent churchmen, as well as a sprinkling of artists, writers and academics. The renowned Gallian sense of style was on full display with the formality of the occasion. The men were all in full evening dress with tailcoats and white bow ties. The women were in an array of gowns that was dazzling in the range of colours, styles and fabrics. Aubrey would have been astonished if he hadn't had eyes only for Caroline.

He saw Duval with a tall, blonde woman in a blue dress. Duval smiled and gave a good imitation of an Albionish thumbs-up. Aubrey was relieved that Duval had turned his attention away from Caroline and had remained good-natured about it all.

In the distance, Aubrey spied George. Sophie was talking in animated fashion with someone whom Aubrey recognised as the Nawab of Dharmat. 'They seem to be having a good time,' Caroline said. She had to lean close to speak over the din, which Aubrey didn't mind in the least.

'You see the way George is nodding? With his finger along the edge of his jaw?'

'Yes.'

'It means he has no idea about what's being said. None at all.'

'It doesn't seem to be worrying him.'

'George, worried? In the company of a charming female? It's his favourite place on earth.'

Caroline laughed, eyes sparkling. Aubrey was gratified. He liked to make her laugh.

The orchestra began a polka. Soon the dance floor was a mass of people moving with the aplomb that only came from expensive lessons.

Aubrey was torn. He knew he could dance well enough, and he actually enjoyed it, but he did need to find his parents.

'Later,' Caroline said, interrupting his thoughts. 'I'd like to dance later.'

'Am I that transparent?'

'Not often, but sometimes.' She inclined her head. 'Is that your father?'

'I believe it is.'

Before Aubrey could move a step, a strong hand took his arm. 'Fitzwilliam. You are not dead then?'

Disengaging himself from a conversation between a befuddled-looking cardinal and a diplomat from Liburnia was Hugo von Stralick.

'And neither are you, Hugo. The explosion didn't get you?'

Von Stralick's gaze was steady. 'Hush, now, Fitzwilliam. Many ears are at work this evening.' He bowed to Caroline. 'Miss Hepworth. You look divine. Much too good for this weak-kneed Albionite. Come with me and I'll introduce you to some countrymen of mine. They have no taste to speak of, but they are extraordinarily rich and they have very fine posture.'

'I don't think so, Mr von Stralick. I'm happy where I am.'

'Really.' Von Stralick scrutinised Aubrey. 'He must have cast a spell on you.' Caroline looked sharply at Aubrey. He blinked. 'Spell? Me? I wouldn't. And I'm not sure if I could. Even if I wanted to, not that that's at issue. Because it isn't.' He spread his hands. 'I don't know what he's talking about.'

'Hmm . . .'Von Stralick said. 'Perhaps not. It appears as if you've addled his brains too much, Miss Hepworth.' He gestured. 'Walk with me a little, Fitzwilliam.'

'I can't. I have to see my parents.'

'I know. I have a few things to tell you before you talk to your father.'

Aubrey apologised to Caroline. 'I won't be long.'

'It doesn't matter how long you are.'

'No?'

'I'm coming with you.'

'Of course.' Aubrey could think of no reason why not.

Von Stralick raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. 'Well enough.'

He led them through the crowd. It took Aubrey a moment, but he realised what was different about the people. They were happy, full of the good spirits that had been missing from Lutetia for some time.

Aubrey was proud. Returning the Heart of Gold had not only stabilised the political situation in Gallia, but it had restored the Gallian nature of the people.

A tiny, peeved voice at the back of his mind whispered about how much this deed had cost him, but he ignored it. He knew he'd thrown away the stability he'd sought. So be it. He'd done something important, and it was worth it.

Von Stralick reached the wall and stood with his back to it. The orchestra moved from the polka to a lively mazurka, which brought cheers from the dancers. Aubrey stood next to von Stralick, with Caroline on the other side.

Von Stralick didn't look at Aubrey as he spoke. 'Gabriel. You know him?'

'The leader of the Sons of Victor.'

'He is one of us.'

Aubrey couldn't help himself. His head jerked around and he stared at von Stralick. 'Gabriel is a Holmlander?'

'A spy. A plant. His mission was to galvanise the Marchmaine movement and split Gallia in two.'

'He nearly succeeded. You know he's escaped from prison.'

Von Stralick stiffened. 'When?'

'An hour or so ago.'

'Very bad. Very bad indeed.'

'Why are you telling us this?' Caroline asked. 'I don't believe he's at all altruistic,' she said to Aubrey.

'I'm not,' von Stralick said. 'My superior is not Gabriel's superior. We believe that he – and his faction – are too rash, too dangerous for all our good.'

At that moment, Aubrey stopped and stared into the distance. It was as if his mind were a great clockwork mechanism just ticking over to noon, ready to ring the midday chimes. 'Gabriel's master,' he asked with dawning certainty. 'He wouldn't be a foreigner, would he?'

Von Stralick gave a tiny fraction of a nod. 'He is an Albionite. You are very astute. What led you to this?'

'Oh, the way Dr Romellier mentioned a certain name.' It also explained why Gabriel and the Marchmainers tolerated the ornithologist at the airfield. If Dr Tremaine was Gabriel's master, and if he had some interest in Dr Romellier, then Gabriel would have been ordered to keep an eye on him. 'And the audaciousness of the plan. The intricacy of what was set in motion. It reeks of our ex-Sorcerer Royal.' Not to mention that the anger spell that first threw the Marchmainers against the authorities bore the hallmarks of Dr Tremaine's magic, Aubrey thought, but I'll keep that up my sleeve, for now. 'And, of course, the ultimate result of the events here in Lutetia would have been war. A vast slaughterhouse of a war, millions of people dead – the numbers of sacrifices Dr Tremaine needs if he is to achieve his goal of immortality.'

'Ah,' von Stralick said. 'We thought Tremaine's role was a secret.'

'How did he become involved?'

'He came to Holmland after he was driven out of your country. Certain parties greeted him with open arms. His knowledge is great.'

'I know. And he is a difficult man to resist.'

'He became an adviser to certain key government figures. He was given a commission in the military, extremely senior.' Von Stralick coughed. 'I have learned that he was controlling Muller and Schnagel's commander as well, promising him great things. He had Gabriel dispose of them when they were proving too independent.'

'Are you trying to stop the war, von Stralick?' Aubrey said softly.

Von Stralick was silent for a moment. 'My superior wants the whole continent. Holmland will need to go to war to achieve it.'

'You haven't answered the question.'

'It is all I have to say on the matter.' He glanced at his pocket watch. 'I must go.'

He wove his way through the dancers and disappeared.

Aubrey sighed. 'Do you think I'll be able to reach my parents this time?'

Caroline smiled. 'Let's see.'

'It's extraordinary, really,' Aubrey said as they skirted the dance floor. 'Holmland has been blowing up Gallian military facilities, but the Holmland Ambassador is over there laughing with the Gallian Foreign Minister.'

'Politics. Diplomacy. It's a strange world. Not enough women involved, I'd say.'

'Really?' Aubrey said. 'You're not thinking of . . .?'

'My thoughts are my own,' she said solemnly, but her eyes teased him.

As Aubrey worked their way past two dowagers who were scribbling in notebooks and sharing their findings, he felt as if he were considerably lighter and suddenly immune to the effects of gravity. Caroline in politics? The prospect made his head fizz.

'Matchmakers,' Caroline murmured, nodding toward the old women. 'Spotting the eligible bachelors in the room. No doubt they have a number of clients waiting for them.'

This was an aspect of continental life that Aubrey was glad hadn't made its way to Albion. He shuddered at the prospect and at that moment caught the eye of one of the dowager women. She studied him, then nodded and jotted in her notebook. Aubrey moved on, quickly.

They reached the end of the dance floor and emerged into the area where tables were arranged – large and round with flamboyant centrepieces made of flowers, feathers and ribbons. Cigar smoke drifted to the ceiling and serious-looking older men and women sat talking in low tones.

Caroline nodded to the right, at the most prominent table. His mother stood, a vision in white. 'Aubrey!'

Beaming, proud, he led Caroline to the table. The men stood, smiling at Caroline. His father grasped his hand. 'I'm glad to see you, Aubrey.' He smoothed his moustache with a forefinger. 'Ah, Miss Hepworth. What a striking dress. It suits you well. A Dumont creation, isn't it?'

'Yes it is, Sir Darius. Thank you.'

'Marvellous artist, Dumont is, but he can't take all the credit. You've made his creation something sublime.'

Aubrey sighed. His father had never needed to learn urbanity. It was second nature.

Sir Darius went on to introduce Caroline to the others at the table. Aubrey took his turn as well, shaking the hands of Prime Minister Giraud, the Minister for Defence and the Minister for the Treasury and greeting their wives. Mrs Hepworth was there, too. She smiled at Aubrey's surprise. The man next to her nodded at Aubrey. He was tall and slender, with fine laugh lines around his eyes.

Aubrey stared. It was the mysterious stranger who'd been haunting him ever since he'd arrived in Lutetia.

Mrs Hepworth laughed. 'I see you've met?'

'In a way,' Aubrey managed to say. 'Mr . . .?'

He stood and held out a hand. 'Colonel McKenzie. Magisterium.'

'Ah. I see.'

The Magisterium operative smiled. 'I must say that I've had easier assignments than following you around, trying to keep you out of trouble.'

'I actually don't think that's possible,' his father put in. 'I told Craddock as much, but he insisted that the son of the Prime Minister needed looking after.'

'I can't say I was much help at all,' McKenzie said. 'You were fiendishly difficult to keep track of, you know.'

'It's been a busy time,' Aubrey ventured.

McKenzie leaned close to Aubrey. 'You pulled off some impressive magic, in any event. That floating tower? Innovative stuff, and I've emphasised as much in my report to Craddock.'

Aubrey wasn't sure how to take this. Compliment or threat? 'I thought you were an assassin,' he said.

McKenzie smiled. 'No, not this time.' He held out his arm to Mrs Hepworth. 'Would you care to dance, Ophelia?'

Aubrey kept a blank face as the Magisterium operative took Mrs Hepworth to the dance floor. 'Is he really an assassin?' he asked his father.

'Craddock likes operatives with a sense of humour.'

Aubrey decided his father wasn't going to answer the question. He gestured at the vacant space at the table. 'The Ambassador?'

'Sir Percy was called away. He wasn't happy about it.'

'I can imagine.' Aubrey hesitated. He had a great deal to tell his father, but this didn't seem to be the right place to do it. Caroline had made her way to his mother's side and the two were discussing something in earnest tones. Birds and beasts, Aubrey guessed. Foreign expeditions.

His father noticed his hesitation. He glanced at Prime Minister Giraud, who was doing his best to appear as if he wasn't eavesdropping. 'We must talk about your time here,' he said to Aubrey. 'I'm sure you have much to tell me.'

'Indeed. Much has happened.'

Sir Darius nodded, then raised an eyebrow. 'Caroline agreed to accompany you to the ball, I see.'

'Yes, sir.'

'She's come to understand that you are, actually, genuine after all?'

'She's a very intelligent person.'

'So I understand. And where is George? Off with a sparkling young woman or two?'

'He's here somewhere. With, as you say, a sparkling young woman.'

Prime Minister Giraud stood and touched a napkin to his lips. He was a small man with a long nose and receding hair, but he managed to project an air of utter stylishness. Aubrey decided his impeccable clothes played a good part in this, but he noted the man's steady gaze and neat, precise gestures. 'Young Fitzwilliam,' he said in good Albionish. 'Mine may be the only official congratulations you receive for your efforts in returning our most valuable treasure, but please accept them nonetheless.'

'I'm glad I could help,' Aubrey murmured. He was pleased that his father heard this, and only wished Caroline had as well.

'Gallia is restored now?' Sir Darius said.

The Prime Minister smiled wryly. 'This crisis is over, thanks to your extraordinary son, but we have others on the horizon.'

'As do we all,' Sir Darius said.

Aubrey felt a tap on his elbow. It was a uniformed embassy functionary. 'Mr Fitzwilliam, sir? The Ambassador would like to see you.'

Aubrey rolled his eyes. He apologised to his father and Prime Minister Giraud. 'Sir Percy probably wants to chastise me for some of the goings on over the last few weeks.'

'Would you like me to come?' Sir Darius asked.

'No. Thank you.'

Sir Darius nodded, a wry smile on his face. 'I forget myself sometimes. I'm sure you can handle Sir Percy.'

'Thank you, sir.' Aubrey felt a small measure of selfsatisfaction. Perhaps his successes were making an impression.

He crossed to where his mother and Caroline were still talking. He kissed his mother and made his excuses before following the functionary through the throng, which, if anything, had grown louder and more jolly. Aubrey found that he was humming along with the orchestra in a surprisingly tuneful manner. He caught George's eye and waved just before he edged through the doorway. George was still at Sophie's side and looked as if heavy machinery would be required to remove him.

The functionary took Aubrey up the grand staircase and along a wood-panelled corridor. Brass light fittings with muted glass shades clung to the walls. He stopped outside a door that was identical to a dozen others they had passed. 'Here, sir. Sir Percy said to enter as soon as you arrived.'

The functionary bowed and hurried back along the corridor, leaving Aubrey alone.

Music floated up from the ballroom, making Aubrey eager to get back to join the celebration. He chewed his lip and stared at the door, feeling uncomfortable standing there. It wasn't the prospect of fronting Sir Percy that unsettled him, it was something else, something skittering around the edge of his magical awareness. Bowing his head, he concentrated and grimaced when he found a tingling presence, diffuse and hard to isolate. It itched deep in his ears, where he couldn't scratch. For a moment, he was worried, then he shrugged. It would be odd not to find magic in a place such as this. Over the years, both high-level and low-level magic would have been performed in the service of Albion.

He rubbed his ears, but it didn't help the itching. He shook himself and sniffed – then his eyes widened. Even though the embassy was a potpourri of smells of leather, wood polish, perfume and cigar smoke, another, more pungent smell hovered in the air. When he realised what it was, he stepped back from the door and stared.

Flash powder. The distinctive, burnt metal smell of flash powder was coming from the room, reminding him of the horror of the Soul Stealer. He hesitated. He'd seen at least one photographer in the ballroom. Perhaps another had been in this part of the embassy?

He didn't want to contemplate the alternative.

He paused and his suspicions took the opportunity to break loose and jab him with sharp sticks. Why hadn't Sir Percy summoned him to his office? Why this obscure room toward the rear of the embassy?

He flexed his fingers, trying to decide what to do. Then a notion occurred to him and he smiled. He brought a simple light spell to mind and changed its intensity variable. He rehearsed it until it was on the tip of his tongue. Once pronounced, it would create a burst of light many times brighter than a photographer's flash powder. It would temporarily stun and blind. A useful weapon.

He grasped the door knob and pushed the door open.

When it swung back, he faced a room cluttered with crates and boxes. The end of the room was marked by lush, crimson floor-to-ceiling curtains. Half a dozen high-backed wooden chairs stood against the curtains. His magical senses alert, he took one step inside. A tiny creak and a swish made him turn, but he was too late. His skull rang like a bell the size of the world and everything went away.

WHEN AUBREY REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS, HE WAS TIED TO A chair. I deserve it, he thought and he cursed himself for preparing magically, but ignoring the possibility of a simple blow to the back of the head.

He was still in the same room. In front of him were the curtains and the high-backed chairs. To either side were boxes of a number of sizes, two tin troughs and three or four large books. A trunk lay open, revealing bottles of reagents.

'I am glad you are awake.'

Aubrey had never expected to hear Farentino, the Soul Stealer, again. Incredulous, he jerked his head around but couldn't swivel far enough.

'Very clever,' he said, his heart hammering. 'Stand behind me and I can't see you. Keep talking and I'll be bound to panic. In a few minutes I'll break down and be putty in your hands.'

'Make your japes while you can. You will soon be free.'

'Free? Excellent. These ropes are chafing. I'm sure I'm getting a rash on my wrists.'

'Free from this earthly existence, this dull travail where we plod day after day until we dwindle, diminished, and are gone.'

'Ah. That sort of freedom.' Aubrey gave up on the ropes. Farentino may have had a depressing view of human existence, but he was a dab hand at knots. Aubrey's stomach flipped over and back again. He realised that his best chance lay in their being discovered, so drawing out the conversation was his best tactic. 'I don't think you should kill me.'

'You will not be killed.'

'Don't you want to know why you shouldn't kill me? If you'd been going to kill me, that is?'

'You will join the others who have been freed. Your soul will be separated from your body and will survive, untouched and unchanging, in an existence beyond the grubby mundanity of this so-called life.'

Aubrey stiffened at Farentino's mention of souls surviving apart from the body, but before he could respond, the photographer stepped into view. He glowered, bending, hands behind his back, so he could look his captive in the face.

Aubrey recognised the bristling black eyebrows, the full black beard, but most of all he remembered the fanatic's eyes. 'Not wanting to be too personal,' he said. 'But you're meant to be dead.'

The Soul Stealer wore a long black coat and a rounded black hat with a wide brim. 'I cannot die. Not before I complete my mission – a mission you seem keen to thwart.'

'Tell me about your mission.' Keep talking, Farentino. Someone will wonder where I am. And when you ramble on, do mention the soul and body thing again. Details this time.

'It is a duty, given to me.' Farentino stretched out a long arm and dragged a chair close. He sat on it and placed his hands on his knees. He stared at Aubrey.

'Given to you? By God?'

Farentino shook his head and his whole body swayed. 'I do not presume to know the mind of God.'

'But someone must have given this mission to you.'

'If the Almighty has deigned to communicate his will to me, who am I to refuse?'

Aubrey thought it wise not to point out the way Farentino had contradicted himself. He had a feeling that consistency wasn't the Soul Stealer's strong point. 'Indeed. After all, he spared you for your work. An ordinary person would have been killed by that plunge.'

'I was taken into the bosom of the waters and borne to safety.' Farentino looked away, distracted. 'I cannot die. I have a destiny to fulfil.'

He stood and walked to the curtains. With a grunt, he drew them back.

Lying on the floor in a haphazard jumble were a dozen bodies, men and women. All of them were wearing evening finery. Propped up in one corner, Aubrey saw Sir Percy Derringford in his bright-red regimental uniform. All of them had the staring, vacant eyes of the dispossessed. Aubrey clenched his fists with horror and frustration.

Farentino walked among them, studying them with a chilling mixture of tenderness and detachment. 'I've realised that I must work more swiftly. Why labour with the masses when I can save the souls of the most important members of society? If I can liberate the leaders, then surely the rest will follow.' He nodded, as if reassuring himself that this had been a good idea.

Aubrey seethed and felt sick in the pit of this stomach. Gallia had been brought back from the precipice by the return of the Heart of Gold, but this madman's actions could throw everything into chaos again.

'How did you get into the embassy?' Aubrey asked.

Farentino started, as if he'd forgotten Aubrey were there. 'Sir Percy. I contacted him and offered a portrait session to mark the occasion of the ball. He even set me up in this room.'

Farentino went to one side, and was obscured from Aubrey's view by the bunching of the drapes. He came back with a large, ominous camera.

'Ah, Farentino,' Aubrey said. 'You've obviously done some fascinating work. I'd really like to discuss it with you.'

The Soul Stealer glanced at Aubrey but didn't reply. He placed the camera on the floor and then went back behind the drapes, returning this time with a heavy tripod.

'All your own devising, is it?' Aubrey said. 'Or did you have some help?'

Farentino busied himself with assembling the contraption. 'In the beginning, I had help from one of your countrymen. A great man.'

'An Albionite?'

'He said he was no longer welcome in Albion. He had great knowledge of magic.'

'Tall man, was he?' Dreadful suspicion prodded at Aubrey. 'Dark hair, eyes?'

Farentino straightened. 'Do you know him? He claimed he'd been Sorcerer Royal in your country, but I didn't believe him.'

Tremaine. Aubrey shook his head. Assisting someone like Farentino and then setting him loose was a typical Tremaine tactic, a backup to a major plan. Layer upon layer, Tremaine's scheming was like an onion.

Aubrey frowned. Combined with what von Stralick had revealed, this was important information. Tremaine was actively pursuing his aim of a continental war, with his usual strategy of working on many fronts at once. Aubrey had to get free and share this with the authorities. And to stop Farentino from turning me into a mindless husk, he thought. Mustn't forget that.

He strained, hoping he could stick out a leg and tip over the camera, damaging it somehow, but he was tied fast to the chair.

Farentino applied himself to seating the camera on the tripod. 'I have made some improvements on my methods,' he said. 'The flash powder.' He gestured to the box by his feet. 'I've enhanced it, magically. The process of capturing your soul will be less painful than formerly.'

'Less painful? Are you saying that as well as being an abomination, this process has been painful as well?'

Farentino didn't look up. He shrugged as he screwed a locking bracket into place. 'What is pain when an existence of unsullied purity is the result? It is a momentary thing to be passed through to achieve the greater good on the other side.'

'Farentino, I was wondering: did you ask all these people whether they wanted to have their souls taken away?'

Farentino straightened. He blinked, puzzled. 'Ask them? Why? How could they begin to understand what I was offering them? I am giving them a great gift, even though their lives are paltry and insignificant.'

Mad as a loon, Aubrey thought.

Farentino measured his flash powder onto his hod.

Aubrey took a desperate stab in the dark. 'It's death magic, isn't it, Farentino? That's what you've built into your photographic process.'

Farentino's hand jerked. Flash powder spilt onto the floor. 'Death magic?'

'You've done well, blending magic and chemical processes. How do you sever the golden cord that keeps body and soul together without the soul disappearing into the true death?'

'You know something of death magic?'

'Enough to know how dangerous it is. How did you protect your soul when you were messing about with it?'

'I . . .' As if in a dream, Farentino fumbled under his coat. He pulled out a small, glass photographic plate. 'My soul. It's here, safe. I trapped it there before I did anything. It hurt a little, but what is life but pain?'

Farentino stared at his soul plate, his expression one of desolation. 'I have little time left, which is why I must save as many souls as I can.'

This sounded more positive. 'You have little time left?'

Farentino held up the plate. 'My soul. It's fading. When it disappears from the plate, I am gone.'

An impractical process, and an imperfect one. Aubrey sighed. He'd hoped to learn something from Farentino's approach, something he could use to shore up his condition, but he now saw it was futile. It's a dead end, he thought. And I hope I live to share that pun with Bertie.

Farentino thrust the soul plate into a pocket. 'Enough. I will liberate your soul, then I will move on to the others in this place. One by one, I will capture the most important guests. Then, a group portrait of those remaining. It will be a triumph.'

Farentino stooped, took a measure of flash powder from the open box and shovelled it onto his metal shelf.

Aubrey saw his opportunity. Farentino hadn't closed the box of flash powder. Sloppy, he thought. It's attention to detail that trips us up in the end.

He called to mind the light spell he'd rehearsed. It was all he had at hand, and he called on his talent for improvisation. Light was a near cousin to heat. The light spell included a tamping element, limiting the heat produced, which was usually a desirable thing. Aubrey, however, inverted that variable, increasing the heat produced.

He snapped out the spell, casting its location at the box next to Farentino's feet.

Just as it flared, Aubrey tipped his chair backward, hoping that the seat would offer some protection. He heard the thump of an explosion and, even though he closed his eyes, the burst of white light went right through his lids. Heat scorched his exposed skin and he felt the tell-tale tingle of magic. He smelled the reek of flash powder and the sharper, more ominous smell of burning cloth and timber.

He opened his eyes to find the room full of dense white smoke. Small flames licked at wallpaper, while pieces of smoking drapery drifted through the air. He lay there, stunned. Flat on my back, tied to a chair, he thought, hacking each breath from a throat that felt as if it was packed full of soot. Not exactly a hero's death.

To his left, he heard a splintering noise.

'Aubrey!'

'George! Over here!'

George blundered through the smoke, squinting and flapping wildly. 'The room's on fire.' He applied himself to the ropes. 'I'll get you free.'

'Don't worry about that.' Aubrey coughed. 'Drag the whole damn chair out of here!'

The last thing Aubrey saw as George hauled the chair out of the burning room was, right where Farentino had been standing, a small pool of melted glass and brass right next to a pile of ash.

COMMOTION, UPROAR AND CONFUSION. DAZED AND SINGED, Aubrey was happy to sit back and choose which word described the situation that was going on around him. Someone had given him a glass of mineral water and he sipped at it, enjoying the soothing effect it had on his throat. From outside the door of the parlour, he could hear shouting, fire bells and running footsteps while the faint strains of the orchestra still drifted up from the ballroom. It was all very dramatic.

Sitting opposite him on a brown leather couch were his mother and Caroline, neither of whom seemed happy. George fussed about, moving from window to window and reporting the goings on.

The door opened and Sir Darius slipped in. He looked unperturbed. 'The fire is out,' he said. 'Little damage, really. The house staff were able to extinguish it before the fire brigade arrived.'

'The ball?'

'It goes on. I think most of those present weren't even aware of the fire. And certainly not about the dispossessed ones lying about up there.' He made a face. 'Horrible.'

'We can restore their souls.' Aubrey sat up straight. 'We use the glass plates and the magically enhanced flash powder to reverse the process. Set off the flash powder, hold the plate between the flash and the dispossessed one and project their soul back to their body. With an enhanced reflector.' He gnawed a lip, remembering the fate of Monsieur Bernard. 'I'll need to sort through Farentino's notes, though, to perfect the process. I want to find the composition of the flash powder, and work out the spell he used to add to it.'

Sir Darius nodded. 'Good. We will speak to McKenzie about it later. But I fear there is another issue that may not be as easy to resolve.'

Aubrey raised an eyebrow at the prospect of an issue that was more problematic than that of restoring lost souls.

Aubrey was exhausted and grimy, but exhilaration was bubbling up inside him after defying the Soul Stealer. He wanted to get back to the ball and enjoy himself. He tried to catch Caroline's eye, but she avoided his gaze.

'Can this wait?' he asked. 'With respect, sir. We should rejoin the ball as soon as we can. Show the flag, so to speak.'

His mother bridled. 'No, this cannot wait. I regard this matter as very, very serious.'

Aubrey scanned the room for clues. His mother's anger was palpable. Her face was pale – furious pale – and her eyes were hard. Caroline also looked unhappy, the handkerchief in her hands seeming to take up most of her attention. No, he corrected himself. Wistful would be a better description than unhappy.

His father was grim. Only George looked as befuddled as Aubrey felt.

His exhilaration began to drain away.

Sir Darius cleared his throat. 'While you were engaged upstairs, Caroline spoke to your mother. She mentioned that she was unhappy at the way her place at the university was withdrawn.'

Aubrey's stomach tried to scurry away and find somewhere to hide. 'Ah. Yes.'

Lady Rose made a fist and bounced it on the armrest of the couch. 'I've lived with you too long, Aubrey, not to be able to sense your machinations. I immediately sought out the Chancellor of the university.'

'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.' Duvall 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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