Heart of Gold (21 page)

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.

T
HEY REACHED THE STREETS OF
L
UTETIA 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.'

T
HE 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.