Word of Honour (10 page)

When the vice-chancellor announced that the
honorary degrees were about to be awarded, Aubrey
nudged George, who started. 'I wasn't asleep,' he said
loudly and received a few haughty looks from people
nearby.

Politicians headed the list, receiving doctorates for
their useful generosity to higher learning. An ex-ambassador
received a doctorate of economics for
working for ten years in the Antipodes. Aubrey thought
that was rather rich. The ex-ambassador should have
been grateful for the privilege. An archbishop picked up
a doctorate of divinity, which he seemed very pleased
with, almost a tick of approval.

Then the name of Arturo Spinetti was announced and
Aubrey nearly leaped to his feet.

A tall figure mounted the stairs to the stage two at a
time. On him, the red robes didn't look foolish – they
looked dashing. His shoulders were broad, his hair long
and dark. He crossed the stage with balance and grace,
like the most expert of fencers. When he took the scroll
from the vice-chancellor he gripped the old man's hand
and grinned, fiercely.

'It's him,' Aubrey hissed to George.

'Spinetti? I know. That's what the vice-chancellor said.'

'No. It's Dr Tremaine.'

George gave Aubrey an odd look. 'Are you all right,
old man?'

Aubrey didn't get a chance to answer. A magnificently
whiskered gent in the seat in front of them turned
and glared.

Aubrey subsided.

Spinetti (
Tremaine!
) launched into a speech of acceptance.
Within a few words, the whole mood of the
audience had changed. Even those who'd fallen asleep
were waking and paying attention. Gone was the pained
forbearance. Instead, the members of the audience began
to smile and nod.

The singer charmed them. With a mixture of self-deprecation
and suave aggrandisement, he spoke of his
delight in accepting his doctorate. He wasn't just grateful,
he made every audience member feel as if he or she were
being personally thanked by someone very special.

Except Aubrey. He sat, shocked, trying to work out
how Tremaine had smuggled himself into the country
from Holmland, why no-one recognised him, and exactly
what he was up to this time.

The new doctor finished by inviting everyone to his
performances in Trinovant, promising them the time of
their lives.

The Prescott Theatre had heard applause many times,
but most of it was polite – especially at tedious award-giving
ceremonies. The applause that the singer received
was different. It echoed enough to make the windows
shake; he bowed, managing to be both flamboyant and
humble at the same time.

Magic
, Aubrey thought frantically.
Tremaine must be
using some sort of concealing magic
.

'Let's go,' he murmured to George while those around
were still clapping wildly. Aubrey slipped out of his seat
and hurried up the aisle towards the exit.

'What is it?' George asked once they were outside.

The wind was cool in the evening and felt good on
Aubrey's brow. 'Theatre door. This way.'

George shook his head, but trotted alongside as
Aubrey hurried around the curving flank of the theatre.
'Mistaken identity, old man. Granted, Spinetti looks a bit
like old Dr Tremaine, but do you really think he'd front
up like this? A bit blatant, isn't it?'

Aubrey stopped, suddenly, and George had to jog back
to join him. 'It
is
blatant. And that's just the sort of thing
he'd do.'

'You're starting to sound strange.' George rubbed his
chin. 'I tell you what. Let's wait out here and see this
character up close as he's leaving. I'll guarantee that you'll
come to your senses.'

Aubrey found that he'd clenched his fists and that it
was an effort to unclench them. 'You think I'm mad? Is
that it?'

'If there's anything I've learned from my time with
you, it's that if you have a bizarre notion, it should be
taken seriously.'

They didn't have long to wait. The organ began again,
signalling the recessional. Soon, gowned and capped
academics began to spill out of the theatre entrance.
They were chattering, full of high spirits, as they made
their way down the stairs, a gorgeous waterfall of colour
and pomp.

Aubrey grabbed George's arm. 'There he is.'

'I see him.' George frowned. 'D'you really think he
looks like Dr Tremaine?'

'Looks like? George, he
is
Dr Tremaine!'

'I don't think so. Dr Tremaine is taller, for a start. And
his nose is longer. Different coloured eyes, too.'

'What are you talking about?' Aubrey grabbed
George's arm, hard. 'It's him, I tell you!'

'Aubrey,' George said softly, 'people are looking at us.
Lower your voice.'

Aubrey blinked. He saw the concern in his friend's
face and he realised he'd been on the verge of creating a
scene. 'George?'

'Easy now. What would Dr Tremaine be doing here?
And don't you think someone would spot him if he was
stupid enough to appear? He's one of the most notorious
people in the world.'

Aubrey rubbed his forehead and searched the crowd
for the Dr Tremaine lookalike, but he'd gone. He let
go of George's arm. 'I'm sorry. I don't know what got
into me.'

'Let's head off, shall we? You're looking pale.'

Aubrey nodded. His stomach felt hollow, as if he hadn't
eaten for days. 'If you say so.'

Together they slipped away from the Prescott Theatre
back to St Alban's College.

A
UBREY HELD THE CUP OF TEA IN BOTH HANDS
. 'I
DON'T
know what came over me. I'm sorry.'

'No need to apologise. Remarkably tame occurrence,
that, compared to some of the hullabaloos we've been
involved with.'

'Still, it's not the sort of thing for our first week at
university. Not a good reputation enhancer.'

'Not exactly.' George munched on a biscuit. 'Protective
colouration, old man, that's what's needed.'

'Protective colouration? You've been talking to
Caroline, haven't you? Sounds all natural historyish
to me.'

George finished his biscuit, grinned and dusted both
hands together. 'Camouflage. What animals do to blend
in with their surroundings so they won't get eaten.'

'I see. And how is this relevant to me? I can't see I'm
in any immediate danger of being devoured.'

'No, but it might be useful to fit in, somewhat. Not
arouse suspicions, if you know what I mean.'

'Ah, yes. My condition. Not drawing attention to it
might be a good thing.'

'It's all well and good being the Prime Minister's son,
but it might be useful to be a jolly keen member of the
student population and all that entails.'

'I think I see what you're getting at. Clubs and
societies?'

'Exactly. They've been touting for members. You
haven't noticed?'

'I've had other things on my mind.'

'I'm surprised you haven't been press-ganged into
something. They're deadly, those recruiters.'

'And what have you found yourself involved with,
George?'

'I'm a Lunatic.'

'Don't be so hard on yourself.'

'Very droll. The student paper.
Luna
. I thought with
my interest in journalism it could be an outlet.'

'And how did a first-year, inexperienced country boy
like you manage to become a journalist on a respected
publication like
Luna
?'

George waved a hand. 'Well, I mentioned that I had
experience with printing presses. Especially problematic
ones.'

Aubrey snorted. While wrestling with a recalcitrant
printing press in the name of the Marchmaine
Independence League could come under the heading of
'experience', Aubrey had filed it under 'tortures not to be
repeated'. He thought he still had ink under his fingernails.
'Nothing like starting at the bottom, George.
Anything else?'

'I gave the Birdwatching Society a miss. The
Rationalist League sounded interesting, but a bit serious.'

'No "Lounging Around and Being Indolent Society",
was there?'

George flapped his hand. 'No need for an organised
club there. I can manage that on my own. I did, however,
put my name down for the Cricket Club. Thought
I'd put the gloves on again, a spot of wicket-keeping.'

Aubrey smiled. 'Now, that sounds like a good idea.
They need players?'

'They're always looking for players, the chap behind
the desk told me.'

'Splendid.' He frowned. 'Now, where did I pack my
bat?'

'Oh. And there's a Musical Theatre Society. Quite
active, they are, too.'

'No.'

'No?'

'No more musical theatre for me. I've had quite
enough, for now. I might try picking up an instrument,
though.'

'Leave the cornet to me. It requires a sensitive touch.'

'I was thinking about the violin.'

'Caroline wouldn't have mentioned she liked the
violin, would she?'

'She may have talked about enjoying string quartets,
but at no time has she specifically nominated the violin
by name.'

George didn't look at him. He tapped his teacup with
a spoon, absently. 'And Spinetti?'

Aubrey took out his pocket watch and studied the
Brayshire Ruby. It was comforting, a solid reminder
of his heritage and of good Albionish craft. 'He is
Dr Tremaine. I'm sure of it.'

'You are?'

'Most certainly.' Aubrey put his watch away. 'I know, it
makes no sense, his being here. Regardless, it is him.'

'Even if no-one else can see it.'

'George, he used to be the Sorcerer Royal. He's
capable of enchantments like no-one else.'

'But why? Pretending to be a singer doesn't seem like
one of his plots to take over the world.'

Aubrey slumped. 'I don't know.'

'Shouldn't you tell Craddock, then? Isn't that the sort
of thing he's got you watching out for?'

'How did you know? Never mind. Craddock's
another one whose motivations are opaque.' Aubrey
scowled, then glanced at George. 'Are you saying that
you believe me?'

George nodded. 'I'm not saying that you're never
wrong, but I've learned that the unbelievable isn't what
it's reputed to be.'

'I'm touched, George, and glad that you believe in me,
because I was starting to doubt myself.' He stretched,
then yawned. 'Tomorrow, let's go and see about doing
some joining up.'

T
HE NEXT DAY
, A
UBREY TOOK
G
EORGE'S PROTECTIVE
colouration suggestion to heart. He joined the Fencing
Club, the Cricket Club and the Chess Club, as well as
making enquiries about the university regiment.

He was careful not to go near the Musical Theatre
Society. He knew that even if he vowed to remain a
casual backstage helper, somehow he'd end up spending
most of his hours there and finding himself as an understudy
to someone with precarious health and uncertain
commitment.

While all this was pleasant diversion – as was meeting
the many and various members of the college – he
quickly plunged into the serious matter of his studies.
Remembering his vow not to engage in any practical
magic, he'd loaded up with magical theory subjects. The
denser, the better.

After his first lecture in Sub-fundamental Magic,
Aubrey knew that this was the place for him. His head
spun as he left the lecture theatre; he found he had to trail
a hand along the stone walls of the cloisters to keep
himself upright. Despite doing his preparatory reading,
and despite feeling that he knew as much as anyone, he
had been dazzled by the depth of reasoning, the open
vistas that lay before him; he'd been impressed, too, by
the remorseless, intense presentation of Professor
Bromhead. The uncomfortable performer from the Great
Manfred's stage show was gone. The professor was in his
element – demanding, gruff, clinical in his unfolding of
the mysteries of the origins of magic.

Aubrey thought this was exhilarating enough, but on
the following day, the professor mentioned his protégé,
Lanka Ravi.