Blaze of Glory (10 page)

'I beg your pardon?'

Aubrey didn't say anything. Smiling, he stood and
stretched. Then he put his hands in his pockets and
strolled around the trunk of the tree, his attention on
the ground. He didn't look at the two men and did his
best to appear every inch an idle and vacant young man
of breeding. Halfway around the tree he found what he
wanted. He bent and re-tied the laces on his boot. 'Watch
the two men, George,' he muttered without lifting his
head. 'Be discreet about it.'

Aubrey stood and flexed the small twig he'd picked up
from the ground. He sought in his memory for the spell
he needed. He mumbled a string of syllables, making
sure he limited the scope of the effect, then the twig
split apart.

Immediately, a crack like gunfire came from overhead.
A large branch tore from the oak tree and crashed to the
earth.

George leaped to his feet. As he did, a chorus of
whistles echoed from the walls of the house.

Aubrey watched carefully. He saw the gardener sprinting
towards them, having abandoned his rake. The man
on the rooftop had his fingers to his lips and was unleashing
volley after volley of whistles.

'Watch, George. We'll compare notes later.' Aubrey put
his hands back in his pockets.

'Sirs! Are you hurt?' The gardener stared at the enormous
branch. He wasn't panting, despite running all the
way in gumboots. His arms were spread and his gaze was
darting from side to side. He was young, in his early
twenties, Aubrey guessed.

'No harm done,' Aubrey said. 'Just frightened, that's all.'

George glanced incredulously at Aubrey.

'You were lucky,' the gardener said. He studied the oak
branch, then pushed back his cloth cap and scratched his
head. 'Never seen that happen before.'

More staff began to appear and several men appeared
from inside, attracted by the commotion. 'Not in spring,'
Aubrey said. 'I've only seen it happen in autumn, when
the acorns are heaviest on the limbs.'

'Aye,' the gardener agreed, but his expression made it
clear that Aubrey was speaking gibberish to him.

The whistling stopped. An older man hurried from
the house. He was short, stocky and obviously in charge.
He surveyed the scene, studied Aubrey and George for a
moment, then caught the gardener's eye. As Aubrey and
George left they were conversing in low voices. Others
stared at the massive oak branch and the wound in the
side of the tree. Nothing seemed to be happening until
an ancient gaffer wheeled up a barrow and started
pointing towards a shed in the distance.

Aubrey held the door open for George and they found
ourselves in a corridor with a bare wooden floor. Their
footsteps echoed. 'Well, Aubrey,' George said softly, 'how
did you know they could whistle?'

'Wait a little, George. Let's go back to my room.'

A
UBREY DROPPED INTO THE ARMCHAIR.
'L
INE OF SIGHT,
George,' he explained. 'That's what it was all about.'

'Line of sight?'

'Indeed. Our gardener who was a sailor, he was part of
it.' He tapped his chin with a forefinger. 'At least, he
had
been a sailor. Until recently, given the suntan on his arms.
He didn't know anything about gardening, judging from
his reaction to my oaks in autumn story.'

'Naturally. The whistling?'

Aubrey nodded. 'I could see that the man on the roof
had a clear line of sight right along the east wall. The
gardener could see into the kitchen garden where the
rooftop watcher couldn't. They were perfectly placed for
observation. And what would observation be without
some method of signalling what they saw?'

'The whistling.'

'George, do you remember at the gate, the two young
men who greeted us?'

'Of course.'

'Military types. Ex-army, I'd say. Did you notice how
the man who greeted us always stood to one side, never
getting between us and the gatehouse?'

'Line of sight.'

'Exactly. The second young man in the gatehouse
probably had a rifle on us the whole time, until he
received a signal that we were all clear.'

George's eyes widened. 'Are you saying that there are
guards everywhere here?'

'Special Services, I'd say. They're the only division that
recruits from both the army and the navy.' Aubrey stood
and began to pace the room. 'Not the Magisterium.
I'm not sensing a trace of magic about these fellows.
They're just good, honest servicemen, the best of the
best, creamed off from the regular army and navy and
recruited to do extraordinary duty.'

'And what's extraordinary about a shooting weekend?'
George said.

Aubrey grinned wolfishly. 'That's what I'm curious
about. I can't wait for dinner.'

A
UBREY RAPPED ON
G
EORGE'S DOOR.
W
HEN IT OPENED,
he put his hands on his hips and scrutinised his
friend. George had dressed in his dinner suit, which
the house staff had pressed. His shirt collar had been
freshly starched and stood high and proud. He tugged
at it, but Aubrey batted his hand away. 'Quite presentable,
George.' He reached out and adjusted his bow tie. 'There.
Perfect.'

'We're not late?'

'Nothing to worry about.'

'Let's go, then. I'm hungry. If it means getting some
food, I'm prepared to sit next to a hundred boring
Holmland diplomats.'

To Aubrey, the dinner was a vital chance to survey
those invited to the weekend. All the guests would be
in one place. By watching who sat next to whom and
which direction the conversations flowed, he'd be able to
determine some of the alliances, some of the tensions and
some of the possibilities.

Since the King's eccentricities had become pronounced
enough that he'd been effectively eased out of
sensitive matters, Penhurst had become known as a place
where political agreements were reached before they ever
came to Parliament. Diplomatic agreements were also
concluded here over a glass of port and a handshake,
language differences disappearing in the convivial
surroundings.

Aubrey also saw this as a sign of the Crown Prince's
increasingly important role in matters of the nation. He
grinned. This was the hurly-burly of upper echelon
decision-making. He loved it.

Before they reached the stairs, George tugged at his
elbow. 'Dash it all, Aubrey. I can't wait any longer. Tell me
how you made the branch fall!'

'I knew you'd ask.' Aubrey reached into his pocket and
pulled out a broken twig. 'A practical application of the
Law of Sympathy.'

George grimaced. 'Like affects like?'

'Very good, George. You learned something before the
masters gave up on you.' He held up the twig and pointed
to where it had snapped in the middle. 'I picked up a twig
from the oak tree and after the right spell to link it to one
of the branches of the tree, I broke it. The branch had no
choice but to snap. Like to like. In the dark ages, those
poor misguided souls would hurt dolls to inflict injuries
on their enemies. The principle is the same, but now we
understand magic better we can control the spells, carefully
delineating variables.'

'We could have been crushed.'

'Hardly. I chose my branch well.' Aubrey reached out
and dropped the twig into a vase that was sitting on a
spindly side table. 'Food is calling.'

A footman, his hair brilliantined until his head shone
like a beacon, directed them to the main ballroom, which
was being used as a banquet hall. It was large, with a
lofty ceiling. Aubrey decided that grapes must have been
the plasterer's forte, as vines snaked along the cornices
and great bunches festooned the tops of the six mock
pillars spaced along each wall. A gallery at one end of
the room overlooked the throng, empty and somewhat
ominous.

Two rows of tables stretched along the length of the
room. A smaller table, obviously for the most important
guests, was at right angles to them at the opposite end to
the gallery. Modest bowls of chrysanthemums were
arranged on the white linen tablecloths. Ranks of cutlery
shone with the sheen that only comes from sterling silver.
Five glasses of various sizes and shapes stood in front of
each setting. It was a display of serious wealth that was
meant to impress and the organisers had not missed any
opportunity.

At the door, they handed their cards to the major
domo and waited while he scanned his seating list. The
major domo frowned and gestured to a footman. A
muttered discussion ensued, and Aubrey took the opportunity
to study the guests who had already been seated.

At first glance, the only thing the guests had in
common was that most of the men were old. At least
in their forties, he guessed, from the grey hair and bald
heads. The women were harder to gauge.

Aubrey blinked. Miss Hepworth. He almost didn't recognise
her, sitting between a tall man with old-fashioned
muttonchop whiskers and a woman who was wearing so
many jewels that she looked as if she were carrying a
chandelier.

Aubrey did his best to stop himself goggling. Miss
Hepworth was wearing a black dress that was shaped in
ways that defied his understanding, and her hair was piled
up on top of her head in a braided curly arrangement
that made her look quite different. However the effect
was achieved, it made her look compellingly elegant and
unapproachable.

She was speaking with animation, leaning towards the
old gent as if she wanted every word to be as fresh as
possible. The old gent listened to her with stunned attention.
She didn't look in the least nervous to be in such
company.

And such company. When Aubrey dragged his gaze
away from her, he saw, a few places away, Wammersley,
the Chancellor of the Exchequer, speaking to the owner
of the largest steelworks in the country. Opposite them
was an actress who was the current toast of theatreland;
she'd captivated two of the most conservative peers in the
land. They looked as though they wouldn't tear themselves
away if someone told them they were on fire.

The major domo loomed. 'Young sirs? We have your
places for you.'

Aubrey spent the next part of the evening listening to
a Holmlander accounts clerk telling him of the glories
of the fatherland and how the Holmlander way of life
was the finest in the world. The accounts clerk seemed
to be able to eat, talk and drink, all without interrupting
his stream of praise for his country, its people, its leaders,
its forests, its mountains and its cheese. Aubrey was unreasonably
pleased to see that George was trapped with
a junior under-secretary from the Royalist Party, a
notorious bore who had obviously mistaken George for
someone important, to judge from the way he was doing
his best to impress.

To his disappointment, Aubrey couldn't see Miss Hepworth
without turning his head one hundred and eighty
degrees, something he thought even his Holmlander
dining companion would be bound to notice.

He was, however, able to see the head table. Prince
Albert was obvious from the throne-like seat he was
installed in. Tallish and slim, dark-haired and with refined,
thoughtful features, the Prince was the focus of attention
of every unmarried woman in the room – and their
mothers, who would give anything to match him with
their daughters. He was quite unlike the ruddy-faced and
extravagantly bearded King, having taken after his
mother, who was from Torremain.

Aubrey recognised the dapper, languid Home
Secretary, Phillips-Dodd, and several older military men.
These bearded gents were doing their best not to be
offended by the assortment of Holmland diplomats and
generals who dominated the table. Sir Guy Boothby, the
Foreign Secretary, was seated between the military and
the Holmlanders, no doubt a deliberate arrangement by
Sir William Brasingham.

Sir William was Prince Albert's equerry and the man
responsible for the detailed planning and execution of the
Prince's daily program. He was dressed in the uniform of
the regiment from which he was seconded, the Midland
Guards. His gaze was never still, but instead of roaming
over the guests, as Aubrey's did, Sir William's attention
was on the footmen, the servers, the major domo and
anyone else involved in the running of the evening.

Aubrey could see, even from this distance, that Prince
Albert was nodding his head and wearing the careful
smile that was his standard expression on these occasions.
It reinforced Aubrey's belief that the Crown Prince had
one of the worst jobs in the country. It seemed to consist
of innumerable dinners with guests not of his choosing,
hundreds of openings of buildings he'd never seen and
was likely never to see again, and making presentations to
people he didn't know for doing things he'd been told
about five minutes before the actual handing over of the
diploma, medal, award or whatever it was that day.

Of course, all these duties had to be done with good
grace, without the slightest hint of bad temper or
boredom.

Aubrey shuddered. Even though Prince Albert had
been brought up for this sort of thing, Aubrey didn't
know how he managed it.

Between the first dessert course and the second, the
major domo rang a small bell. It precipitated a mass
turning of heads by those who knew what the signal
meant and a delayed, consequent movement by those
who followed their lead. The final effect was like a breeze
blowing over a field of wheat.

It was time for the Prince to make a speech. Aubrey
sent mental thanks heavenwards, for it meant that his
Holmland dinner companion had to interrupt his litany
of Holmland achievements, just as he was beginning to
delve into pre-history.

'Lord Ambassador of Holmland,' the Prince began,
nodding to the man on his right, 'lords, ladies, friends.
I should like to welcome you here to Penhurst. I hope
you are all comfortable in your rooms and that your stay
here will be a pleasant one.

'I especially wish to welcome our friends from
Holmland – the ambassador and the delegation who have
just arrived from the court of our cousin the Elektor. It
is good to have you here and I hope that I may be able
to visit your country again one day soon.'

The reaction this seemingly bland statement caused
was minute, but unmistakable. A slightly raised eyebrow
here, a faint stiffening of posture there.
Interesting
, Aubrey
thought as he tried to catalogue who reacted in what
way. His father would want to know.

The Prince went on. 'I also wish to welcome our
researchers from Banford Park, whom we've grown fond
of in this last year. I'd especially like to welcome Professor
Hepworth, who has stepped into the breach as the leader
of this vital establishment since the death of Dr Mordecai
Tremaine in a tragic ornithopter accident, something we
are only now making public.'

This announcement created more consternation in
the gathering, some mutters, a scene bordering on bad
manners. Aubrey felt as if he'd been struck. Dr Tremaine
dead? Stunned, he realised that this Banford Park must
be the research facility Dr Tremaine had hinted at when
at Stonelea School.

Aubrey rubbed his forehead. Magical studies would be
put back decades by the loss of Dr Tremaine. It was a
staggering blow.

He straightened in his seat and peered at the tall, lanky
man the Prince indicated. The professor's dinner suit
looked a little frayed around the edges. He had a large,
round face, and he looked very, very serious. The Prince
smiled at him. 'Professor Hepworth, I am assured that
your researchers will not use their magic to assist them in
any way in tomorrow's hunt.'

Professor Hepworth looked bemused for a moment,
then frowned and dabbed at his lips with a napkin, oblivious
to the polite laughter that this mild quip brought
forth.

Prince Albert waited until the chuckles had died
down. 'I must extend apologies to you on behalf of the
Minister for Magic. Sir Philip is, naturally, bound up with
sorting out the consequences of Dr Tremaine's passing.'

The professor waved a hand, almost knocking over a
candlestick.

'And now,' the Prince continued, addressing the entire
assembly, 'I wish you all the best of luck for the shoot and
I thank you for coming.'

After the dinner had ended, the diners broke into
smaller groups and took themselves off to private
corners, nooks, corridors and rooms to discuss and dissect
the evening and its announcements. Cigars were produced
and servants rushed in all directions carrying
decanters of port on silver trays, on occasion barely
avoiding nasty collisions with each other. Intrigue,
conspiracies and schemes were so prevalent it seemed as
if they were necessary to sustain life.

Aubrey managed to disengage himself from his
Holmland companion. George was still politely listening
to the junior under-secretary, nodding as the undersecretary
dropped name after name that Aubrey knew
would mean nothing to him. The under-secretary
seemed to be taking George's lack of reaction as a sign
that he was unimpressed and was desperately trying to
find the names of richer, more aristocratic or more
powerful people he was friendly with.

Aubrey tapped George on the shoulder. ''Ere,
young'un. Time you were a-bed. Stables'll need good
mucking out in the morning.'

George blinked, but quickly saw the opening Aubrey
had provided. 'Aye,' he said broadly. 'Muck waits for no
man.' He thanked the under-secretary for his company.

Aubrey was pleased that they left the junior undersecretary
displaying a mixture of bafflement, disdain and
pique. The expression on his face nearly made Aubrey
laugh out loud, but he whisked George away while
managing to keep a straight face.