Heart of Gold (14 page)

'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.'

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, T
HURSDAY
, A
UBREY 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.'

W
HILE
G
EORGE 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.'

A
UBREY 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.'