Heart of Gold (24 page)

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.'

A
UBREY 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.'