Word of Honour (13 page)

Aubrey considered this. 'You're correct. Let's get back
to your expedition. But I reserve the right to return to
feeling aggrieved later.'

'If you must.'

'You were shot at.'

'It missed.'

'I gathered that. Where? Why? How?'

'In St Ivan's, our last provisioning port before we
headed north. I was supervising the loading of a bale of
reindeer skins.'

'It was definitely you he was after?'

'Oh yes. He called my name. When I looked around,
he fired.'

'And then?'

'Well, after Caroline and I disarmed him, he ran off.
We chased him, of course, but he knew the woods better
than we did and he escaped.'

'Why did you cancel the expedition? That doesn't
sound like you.'

'If it were just me, I would have pressed on. But I had
others to think about. One attempt, I could pass off as
an error, or madness. Twice, however, is rather hard to
ignore.'

'You were shot at again?'

'No, no, not shot at. But the incident was undeniably
hostile. That evening. We were still berthed, but fully
provisioned by that time. I took my customary stroll on
deck after supper. A figure came out of the shadows –
burly, stinking of fish – and brandished a large knife.'

'Caroline was there?'

'Appeared, disarmed him and I rendered him unconscious.'

'I could have warned him that he'd have been better
off with a rifle, 'Aubrey mused,' rather than risking coming
to close quarters with you two. You handed him over to
local authorities?'

'In St Ivan's? There are no local authorities in St Ivan's.'
Lady Rose actually looked discomforted for a moment.
'It meant we had to take matters into our own hands, as
it were. We tied him to a chair and asked him questions.
The captain helped, but had to go away after a while.'

'Weak stomach?'

'Nothing so crude as that, Aubrey, thank you. He went
to find some of the more prominent citizens of St Ivan's.
Or less disreputable citizens, anyway. They confirmed the
identity of our assailant as a renowned local layabout
and ne'er-do-well. Which is quite an accomplishment in
St Ivan's, it being a sort of haven for layabouts and ne'er-do-wells. They tended to believe his story about not
knowing the man who paid him. They pointed out that
several strangers from the south had been in St Ivan's
in the weeks prior to our arrival, leaving just before our
steamer pulled in.'

'Interesting. How far south, I wonder?'

'I did ask, Aubrey. Really, sometimes you seem to think
no-one else is capable of clear thinking.'

'Sorry, Mother.'

'To most St Ivanians, "south" is a rather nebulous term,
meaning pretty much the whole world – seeing as there
isn't much that's north of St Ivan's. One of the prominent
citizens – the one with two peg legs – ventured that he
recognised the accent of the strangers.'

'Distinctive, was it?'

'Holmlandish usually is.'

Aubrey sat back, laced his hands on his chest and gazed
at the ceiling. 'And how angry was Father when you told
him that Holmland has tried to assassinate you?'

'Extremely. He went still, and when he spoke, his voice
was very, very soft.'

'Ah. That angry.'

'He immediately called in Commander Tallis. I had to
repeat the whole story.'

'Tallis's reaction?'

Lady Rose smiled, a little. 'He was upset. He kept using
words like "underhand" and "unsporting".'

'Yes, he would.' Aubrey was puzzled. An extraordinary
plot, and it showed how far Holmland's espionage
services reached. The death of the Prime Minister's wife
in the polar regions would be a shock, but not totally
unexpected, frontier wildernesses being what they were.
The taint of suspicion would hardly fall on Holmland.
The result would be a distraught, perhaps unmanned,
Prime Minister, as the couple were famed for their
closeness.

A distraught Prime Minister of Albion?
Aubrey thought.
One whose decision-making may be compromised? What an
excellent opportunity to declare war.

He grew angrier and angrier as he considered the
implications. Firstly, he could see what Tallis was
outraged about. This sort of action was different from the
past. Clandestine action against non-participants? Where
would it end?

He also realised that this may well have very personal
implications.

'Yes, Aubrey,' his mother said, and he realised she'd
been watching his face closely. 'It seems as if we live in
very different times now.'

J
UST BEFORE THEY LEFT
, A
UBREY'S FATHER HAD ARRIVED
home and, after sharing a significant look with
Stubbs, their driver, insisted that they take the
Oakleigh-Nash to the theatre. Stubbs had been part of
Sir Darius's army company, a drill sergeant whose particular
skills in both armed and unarmed combat had
proved useful in civilian life.

As they edged through the traffic, Aubrey sat his hat on
his lap and turned to Caroline. 'Why didn't you tell me
about my mother?'

She smiled. A little challengingly, he thought. 'Why,
Aubrey, what a direct question! For a change, you simply
asked instead of going round and round in circles.'

'Well, it's important.'

'She asked me not to, that's why.'

'And you happened to mention it back at Maidstone
because she was ready to tell me, and she knew that if
you dropped it into conversation I'd burst in on her and
demand to know what went on?'

'Yes, something like that.'

He crossed his arms on his chest. 'I hate being
predictable.'

'Never mind. I'm sure you'll make up for it by doing
something frightfully capricious any minute now.'

'I should hope so.' Aubrey turned his hat over in
his hands. 'I would like to have seen the expression on
the face of that would-be assassin when you took
to him.'

She shrugged. 'I felt sorry for him, eventually. Not
very bright at all. Brutish, easily led, cruel. What sort of
life is that?'

'I'm going to write a review of the show,' George
announced.

Aubrey and Caroline both stared at him.

'Apropos of nothing at all?' Aubrey said.

'Actually, I've been waiting to get a word in edgewise.
It's dashed difficult when you two get up and running.'

'For
Luna
?' Caroline asked.

'That's the idea. While I'm happy to help out with the
printing press, I think actually writing something could
be a useful step towards real journalism.'

'Did you write one for the Great Manfred's show?'

'I scratched out something, but Cedric Westerfold
fancies himself as a critic, ran up a review and shot it in.'

'Westerfold?' Aubrey asked.

'You know. Short, loud, nose like an anteater.'

'Ah. Tries to sport a monocle but it keeps falling out?'

'That's the one. I have him in mind as my journalistic
nemesis. It's handy to have one of those, I understand,
trading barbs in the press, striving to outdo each other in
the witticism department.'

Aubrey had trouble imagining it. 'I look forward to
reading all about it.'

Caroline opened a window. 'Traffic's not moving at all.
The street's choked.'

'Time to walk, then,' Aubrey said.

Stubbs turned around, frowning. 'I'm not sure that's a
good idea, sir.'

'It's not that far, Stubbs. We can manage.'

'It's not that, sir –'

Aubrey had already leaped out of the car. He squeezed
around a delivery truck and raced around to Caroline's
door.

'We'll catch a cab home,' Aubrey said to the unhappy-looking
Stubbs, then he joined Caroline and George on
the pavement.

Pedestrians swirled and surged. Hawkers, pedlars and
barrow boys added to the confusion by touting their
wares, blocking the flow and diverting people onto the
street, which was, fortunately, still choked with traffic that
was barely inching along. The entire city seemed to be
converging on the Orient Theatre.

'They're all wanting to see Spinetti,' George said
over the chatter around them. 'He's popular, if nothing
else.'

They joined a long queue that was snaking its way
along the pavement towards the box office. It moved
along well, and soon they reached the laneway that ran
alongside the theatre. Aubrey glanced in that direction,
trying to maintain an awareness of his surroundings.
The lane was dark, a single electric light at the far end
the only illumination. Someone stood in the shadows,
near a jumble of crates that had been left against the wall
of the theatre. He was tall, and wearing a shapeless cap.
Aubrey couldn't make out his features, but tensed when
the man lifted a hand.

'Mr Fitzwilliam?' he called. 'You're intending to see
Mr Spinetti, the singer?'

'Without wanting to be rude, what business is it
of yours?'

'If you'll just come this way.' He hesitated. 'It's important.'

Aubrey's feet seemed to be assured by the calm confidence
of the stranger; he took a step into the lane before
he realised what he was doing. He stopped and shook his
head. 'I don't think so.'

George appeared at his side. 'What is it?'

Then Aubrey heard Caroline's voice. 'Aubrey?
George?'

'In here.'

On the opposite side of the lane from the theatre, a
metal door banged open. Two more dark-clad figures
emerged. Both of them had the shapeless caps.

The first stranger held up a hand and his two colleagues
froze.

It was a suspended moment where nothing was happening.
Aubrey knew that the pause wouldn't last, that
events would move forward at any instant – for better or
for worse.

Caroline came around the corner, saw the tableau
– Aubrey, George, confronted by three strangers in
a darkened alley – and took matters into her own
hands.

Events moved forward again, toward the 'worse' end of
the scale.

Before Aubrey could stop her, she slipped past him
and kicked at the knee of the first stranger. He jumped
backward, but by then Caroline had closed on him. Her
open hand whipped upward, catching the stranger flush
under the chin.

Aubrey heard his teeth snap together. His head
bounced off the brick wall and he crumpled to the
cobblestones.

A scream went up from behind them as someone in
the theatre crowd decided that reality was much more
confronting than make-believe.

George roared and waded in, meeting the advance
of the other two strangers. He knocked one over and
grappled with the other. Caroline grasped her skirts
and leaped over to help.

Aubrey was about to hurl himself into the fray when
the sour taste of magic came into his mouth. Spinning
around, he saw the first stranger was on hands and knees
in the muck, but he'd lifted his head and he'd begun to
chant a spell.

Aubrey could feel it taking shape. A simple binding
spell, it was a derivative using Greek as its base. He knew
he could counter it by snapping out an annulment
with a limiter on the duration, effectively ending the
spell as soon as it began – but he hesitated, remembering
his vow not to do magic.

The hesitation was enough. Someone hit him from
behind and his dilemma was suddenly irrelevant.

W
HEN
A
UBREY REGAINED HIS SENSES, HE WAS IN A BRIGHTLY
lit room that smelled of disinfectant. A bland-faced man
was looking down at him.

'Good. I'm MacNamara,' the bland-faced man said.
'Are you fit to get up?'

Aubrey worked his jaw for a moment and glanced
sourly at him. 'It depends.'

'On what?'

'On whether you're going to hit me again.'

'I didn't hit you.'

'No?'

'Carstairs did.'

MacNamara gestured to Aubrey's left. Aubrey shifted
his attention, discovered exactly what 'woozy' meant
along the way, and saw another bland-faced man leaning
against the tiled wall. 'Hello,' Carstairs said. 'Sorry about
the conk on the old noggin. Couldn't be avoided.'

Aubrey sat up and saw that he was in a hospital bed.
He rubbed the back of his head. 'Hate to contradict you,
but you could have avoided it by not hitting me on the
back of the head.'

'Ah yes, but you were about to do some magic. Had to
stop you.'

'No I wasn't. And no you didn't. And what is going on
here? Where are my friends?'

'Craddock will tell you,' MacNamara said.

Aubrey rubbed his forehead. The Magisterium. Well, at
least he should be safe with them.

C
RADDOCK STUDIED THE NOTEBOOK ON THE DESK IN FRONT
of him, then regarded Aubrey across the wooden expanse.
'Well, at least you're safe with us.'

Craddock was a difficult man. Aubrey couldn't imagine
having a friendly chat with him. Musings on the weather,
one's health or the state of the national cricket team
wouldn't come easily to him. 'If you call being assaulted
then abducted "safe", then I suppose we are.'

Craddock moved one of his pen stands a fraction of an
inch. He picked up a silver fountain pen and balanced it,
crossways, on his forefinger. 'Apologies for all that. Bit of
a mix-up, really. You were recognised by my operatives
and they showed commendable judgement in wanting to
get you away. Not so commendable was the way they
overreacted. Especially since you're a fellow member of
the Magisterium.'

Aubrey rubbed the lump on the back of his head, the
tangible evidence of their overreaction. 'What's wrong
with the Orient Theatre? And what were your operatives
doing in the first place, flitting about in the dark
like that?'

'Two things. Firstly, we've had this Spinetti under
surveillance for some time. Did I say something funny,
Fitzwilliam?'

'No, not funny. Not funny at all.'

'Very well. Secondly, our monitoring section detected
another substantial magical flare-up in that vicinity, early
this evening. It was very brief, but strong enough for
three separate monitors to hit the alarm.'

Aubrey nodded at that particularly interesting piece of
news. 'And when I appeared, it sent your people into a
spin. Prime Minister's son and all.'

Craddock's expression didn't change. 'It was potentially
a tense situation.'

'What aroused your suspicions about this Spinetti?
Before tonight's magical surge, I mean?'

'Small things. Enough to make us interested.'

'It would have to be magical, otherwise it wouldn't be
a Magisterium matter.'

Craddock flipped the pen and caught it in the same
hand. He placed it back in its holder. 'This is novel.
I'm usually the one asking the questions.'

Aubrey wondered how much to tell Craddock.
Despite some misgivings, he'd come to respect the man,
understanding that his integrity was absolute. Beholden
to the country, not to any particular political master, his
actions were often viewed with suspicion by politicians,
but the independence of the Magisterium was guaranteed
by the constitution.

And isn't this what I agreed to do?
he thought. Working
for the Magisterium had seemed exciting. Now, he
wasn't entirely sure.

'I have an interest in Spinetti,' he said guardedly.

'I see. I take it that this interest goes beyond his
singing? Which, by all accounts, is uncommonly good.'

'I think he's Dr Tremaine.'

Craddock didn't move for some time. He studied
Aubrey with his dark, unblinking eyes. 'Well,' he said
eventually. 'That is fascinating.'

Aubrey let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been
holding. It was hard to surprise Craddock, but he
thought that he'd at least managed to take him aback
a little. 'I'd begun to doubt myself. No-one else can
see it.'

Craddock held up a finger. 'I'm not saying I accept
this. I'm simply saying that it might explain some of the
anomalies we've noted around him and the area of that
theatre.'

'Magical anomalies?'

'To all intents and purposes, he is what he seems.
His papers are all in order. He fulfils his obligations. He
is adored by the public. But we have operatives on
the boat train, especially when foreigners are coming
in. When Spinetti arrived, one operative had the distinct
impression – for a moment – that his appearance
changed.'

Aubrey felt relieved. He mightn't be the only one.
'But the operative wasn't certain?'

'No. Whatever, it was enough to put him on our "To
Be Watched" list. Several times since, we've detected
magical ripples in his vicinity. Always behind closed doors,
nothing overt. And then this substantial flare-up.'