Word of Honour (17 page)

Aubrey was glad no-one appeared and poked him with
a feather, for he would have toppled like a sawn-off tree.
'What?' he said weakly.

She looked at him solemnly, as if she were enquiring
about a cold. She held her bag in both hands. 'Your
condition. Your soul. Your self-inflicted half-life. What
is
your current state?'

'You know?' He gathered himself and immediately
headed off a protest. 'Of course you know. You're not
stupid.'

'Thank you.' She frowned and seemed to choose her
words. 'It's mostly been observation, you know. I saw
your interest in my father's notebook, then how ill you
looked in Lutetia . . . After that, I asked a few questions
of people at Stonelea, read some notes of my father's. And
I put two and two together.'

'But why didn't you say anything? It's been difficult,
hiding it from you.'

'I thought as much. But you seemed so intent on
keeping to yourself. And George.'

'He told you?'

'No. But I assumed he'd know. And you've just
confirmed it.'

'Ah. Yes.' Aubrey leaned on the parapet of the bridge.
Lights were streaking the water, reaching from one bank
to the other. Some met in the middle, and muddled
together in a whirl where the wash of boats combined.
'Who else knows?'

'No-one that I know of. Your father might suspect.
And your mother. But neither has said anything to me.'

And here I was, thinking I was so clever
. 'My condition is
stable,' he said, answering her question. 'Thank you for
asking.'

'It wasn't a polite enquiry. I'm concerned.' She held up
a hand as he brightened. 'Concerned, that's all. I wouldn't
like to see anything happen to you. And don't read
anything into that.'

'I shan't.'
I shall
.

'I thought it might help, if you don't have to go to the
effort of hiding it from me.'

'So I can be myself? Weak and feeble Aubrey?'

'Are you weak and feeble?'

'Just now? No. Things are well enough.'

'But you're not improving.'

'Nor deteriorating. It's satisfactory.'

'You'd never be content with satisfactory. Exceptional
is your minimum acceptable standard.'

'I aim high.'

'So do I.'

'We're alike like that,' he said, more as a tactic than
with any real hope.

'Yes,' she said, but her expression wasn't hopeful. It was
sombre as she looked over the river. 'I blame our fathers.'

Caroline was one of the few people who had the
ability to consistently flabbergast Aubrey. 'And what do
our fathers have to do with this?' he said when he finally
managed to put words together.

'Quite a lot, really. Look at mine. A brilliant, worldwide
authority on magic. A master in his field. Consulted
by governments here and abroad.' She sighed. 'It's quite a
lot to live up to.'

Words eluded Aubrey again. He grasped at them,
but they slipped away like eels. 'I thought I was the
only one.'

She glanced at him and smiled a little. 'I guessed as
much. Driven to try to emulate a great man? Always
being asked about following in his footsteps? Trying to
succeed, your own way, despite all this?'

'That sounds familiar.'

'And expectations.' She scowled over the bridge.
'Don't talk to me about expectations.'

'Your parents' expectations are too high?'

'What? No. They haven't had any. Or they didn't express
them. They always said they didn't want to crush me with
their dreams. They wanted me to find my own future.'

'So you have to try to guess what their expectations
are, for fear of disappointing them.'

'That's right.' She looked squarely at him. 'Oh. It's like
that for you, too?'

'For as long as I can remember.'

'Hmm. But what you don't have to contend with is a
mother who is also famous and brilliant.'

'I do have a mother who is world-renowned and
exceptionally accomplished. Lady Rose Fitzwilliam?
You've heard of her?'

'Well, yes, but being a male you don't have to live up
to her.'

'So you have to live up to your father's name as well as
your mother's?'

'Raised in a prominent suffragist household like ours?
Of course.'

'So you have it harder than I do. You have two parents
to live up to.' It was a novel thought. Aubrey had always
felt that he had a unique situation in as far as living up to
parental expectations went.

'People call me driven,' Caroline said. She rested her
arms on the parapet and bent to put her chin on them.
'Or ambitious. They don't realise that the only way to
live up to these unstated hopes is to excel. To triumph.
Even then, I'm not sure.'

'So we are alike.' As Aubrey said it, he realised that he'd
placed a little too much hope on his words. He turned
around so he was facing the traffic. 'So where does that
leave us?'

'On a bridge. In Trinovant. Trying to do the best
we can.'

'That's not what I mean.'

She looked at him and he nearly swooned at the
sweetness of her smile. 'I know, Aubrey. But let's let it rest
there for now, please.'

'Of course.' He straightened a jacket that didn't need
straightening at all. 'Will your mother be worrying
about you?'

'It's not even eight o'clock.'

'Excellent. Would you have time for the dinner I
promised? Marcel's is just on the other side of the bridge.'

'I thought you'd forgotten.'

'A promise is a promise.'

Caroline was merry, entertaining and wickedly witty as
Marcel himself served them. She charmed him, the other
waiters, and – of course – Aubrey, but he thought that
underneath her sparkle, a wistfulness lay. They ate excellent
soup, fine fish, and a dessert that was both delicate
and sweet. Beyond that, Aubrey couldn't remember any
details about what was served to them.

When they finally reached the Hepworths' city flat – a
quiet, gently curving street in Mortonbridge – they stood
at the bottom of the stairs. The streetlights were lit, and
the windows of the houses on both sides showed that
families were in residence.

Caroline held her bag in front of her like a shield.
She didn't look at him. 'Aubrey.'

He'd been waiting for this. 'I know. You think it best if
we don't see each other for a while.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'It's too much, you're not ready, something like that.'

She did look at him this time. 'Is leaping to conclusions
a speciality of yours?'

Aubrey went over the conversation in his mind and
decided that a brief retracking was in order. 'You were
about to say something?'

'Thank you. You went haring off in completely the
opposite direction, you know.'

'Opposite? Do we have a future together?'

'Yes. No. Not exactly.' She paused. 'You do make things
awkward, don't you?'

I was thinking the same thing of you
. 'Apparently.
Sometimes on purpose, too.'

'There is much to be said for not seeing you. I realised
that after your poor show in Lutetia.'

Here it comes
. 'I'm not going to pretend that never
happened. But I have sworn it will never happen again.'

'A noble aim. But I do worry that you tend to get
caught up in things. Big things. And when important
events are in train, I fear that you lose sight of the people
around you. They become less important.'

Aubrey wanted to squirm, but resisted the impulse.
'I did. Not any more.'

'As you say. Forgive me if I harbour reservations about
that resolution.'

His face fell. 'I shall miss you, you know.'

'There you go again, getting ahead of yourself. What
I'm trying to say is that
despite
all that, I still want to
see you.'

'You do? Why? I mean, that would be wonderful. If
you're happy, that is. And if you're not, then I'm sure
something can be done.'

'You're babbling again, Aubrey.'

'Sorry. Go on.'

Caroline was silent for a moment. A cab trotted past.
The driver tipped his hat to them. 'It's exciting, you
know.'

'Exciting?'

'This world you've introduced me to. The plots. The
spies. The subterfuge. The adventures. It's thrilling.'

'Oh yes. Makes the blood race.'

'When Commander Tallis offered me a position, I
thought he was joking. But after the Lutetian affair,
I was elated.'

'Me too.'

'We stopped the world going to war, Aubrey. We
skirted death, we foiled plots, we rode magical towers,
we nearly had our souls stolen.'

'And we danced at the embassy ball.'

'Yes. That too.' Caroline looked up at the evening sky.
'You see, for years I'd had my head down with one goal
in mind: I wanted to be a scientist. You've shown me that
there is more, and it's tempting.'

'I've always been torn,' he said. 'Magic. The army.
Politics.'

'Exactly. My efforts for women's suffrage have suffered
of late. I need to do more. Seeing how you've worked for
your father – and how he has worked – has shown me
the sort of thing that needs to be done.'

'You aim to be the first female member of parliament.'

'If I can.'

'If you can manage it with all the other goals that are
calling you.' He pursed his lips. 'I have one word of advice
for you: wax.'

'Wax?'

'Do you remember the classical story of Odysseus and
the sirens? He had his crew tie him to the mast as they
sailed past, so he could hear the sirens' tempting song and
not plunge over the side to join them and be eaten.'

'And the wax, Aubrey?'

'That's the point. All his men, working at the oars, had
their ears stuffed with wax so they couldn't hear the siren
song. That's what you need.'
And that's what I need, too.
'Special wax so that you won't hear the siren songs you
don't want to. Wax will help you avoid the temptations
that the world has to offer. Wax will allow you to ignore
distractions. Metaphorically, of course.'

'Then I will offer you a metaphor in return: juggling.'

'I know this one. A juggler is perfectly fine as long
as all the balls are kept in the air, kept moving, kept in
balance.'

'I was thinking more along the lines of those mixed
jugglers: balls, knives, plates, indian clubs, kittens.'

Aubrey was intrigued. 'You've seen a kitten juggler?'

'Once. A long time ago, a friend of my father's. They
didn't look happy, but they weren't harmed.'

'Amazing.' He nodded. 'Yes, it's like juggling futures,
isn't it?'

'Juggling futures. A neat way to put it, Aubrey.'

'And the immediate future?'

'We have to do something about Dr Tremaine. If it
is him.'

'It is.'

'And he may have plans to rob the Bank of Albion.'
Caroline shook her head impatiently. 'I must go back
to the university tomorrow. I have studies to attend to.
Another item to add to the juggle.'

'Of course. As do I.' Aubrey stopped and hummed a
little. Bloch's hinting at an attempt to rob the bank was
a bombshell. But how trustworthy was it? 'I think I'll
drop in and see Jack Figg before I go.'

'Tonight?'

'Jack is always happy to see me. Besides, I have a
notion that could be helpful in our investigating Dr
Tremaine's plans, something that might help us gather
more information.'

Caroline nodded, then mounted the stairs where she
stopped and turned. 'You'll catch the morning train?'

'Bright and early. I'll see you at Greythorn?'

'We'll have to meet regularly. To share information and
suchlike.'

'Of course. Entirely proper.'

Caroline paused with her hand on the brass door
knob. 'Aubrey, I realise that I'm being difficult.'

'Not at all.' Puzzling, maybe. Difficult had too many
negative connotations for Aubrey's liking.

'I don't want you to get the wrong idea. It's just that
I'm having trouble knowing what the right idea is.'

'That's a predicament I know well.'

'I want everything, you see. The future is there in
front of me. A thousand futures – more. I want all of
them. I suppose that sounds greedy.'

'It sounds exciting.'

And it sounds like me.

J
ACK'S HOVEL WAS ONE OF THE CLEANEST HOVELS
Aubrey had ever seen. Two cats were waiting
outside – one on a dustbin, the other sitting on the
step like a miniature sphinx.

'Hello, puss,' he said, more out of politeness than
friendliness. He'd never warmed to cats. The one on the
dustbin eyed him as if it knew exactly that and would
take the first opportunity to trip him up when it presented
itself.

The door opened. 'Oh, it's you, Aubrey. Come in.'

'You looked surprised, Jack. Who were you expecting?'

'No-one, no-one. Sit anywhere.'

Aubrey looked around the tiny room that opened
directly onto the street. Apart from the desk, it was full of
boxes, some piled three high. 'On one of these boxes?'

'That's all there is, I'm afraid. Tea?'

'Thank you. More pamphlets in here, Jack?'

'Of course. The struggle for justice and equality can't
get enough pamphlets.'

Aubrey worked his hand under a lid. 'Ah. "Votes for
Women". I didn't know you were a suffragist, Jack.'

Jack stood there with a brown teapot in his hand and
a vacant expression on his face. 'What? Of course I am.
Only an idiot would be against votes for women. It's a
struggle, and I'm on the side of justice here. Speaking of
such, what's your father doing about it?'

'What he can. The party is undecided. Lost something?'

'The kettle. It was here a minute ago.'

'It's on top of that pile of boxes. It has a kitten in it,
I think.'

Jack found the kettle, tipped two kittens out of it, and
disappeared through one of the doors that opened onto
the room. Some clattering, clinking and shuffling later, he
reappeared. 'That won't take long to heat up. Now, what's
brought you here?'

'I need your help, Jack.'

'Again.'

'Again. It's the Holmlanders.'

'Our foreign friends.' Jack sat on the desk and sucked
his teeth for a moment. 'I had a feeling you were going
to ask about them.'

'Why? Are you suspicious?'

'I deal with many people, as you know. Many
foreigners, too.'

'You're a prince, Jack.'

'I'll have none of that aristocratic nonsense here.' Jack
grinned. 'I have a different view of patriotism from most,
I'll grant you. I see us all belonging to the community of
humanity, first and foremost. Crowns and kings and
borders come a distant second.'

'I'll grant you that many ills have been perpetrated in
the name of patriotism.'

'That they have. And it's worse than ever, in my books.
Just read the papers, or listen to your politicians. It sounds
as if some of them can't wait to go to war. As if they'd be
the ones going.'

'All the more reason to do what we can to prevent it.
Tell me what's troubling you about the Holmlanders.'

'For one, they seem very well-off for poverty-stricken
refugees.'

'They're aristocrats. They must have smuggled out
some funds.'

'True, but it's the pattern I'm intrigued by. They seem
to be flush with cash for a while, then it disappears and
they have nothing to show for it.'

'Perhaps they're selling off the family jewellery and
sending the proceeds back to family in Holmland.'
Or using it to buy influence
, Aubrey thought,
or even to fund
the Circle's activities.

'Could be, could be. I've seen that done before, too,
but it's always with gloom and tears. Not Count Brandt
and his crowd. It's money, not family heirlooms, that's
keeping them afloat.'

'Hmm.' Aubrey rested his chin on his hand. 'On
another matter altogether, how are Maggie and her
Crew, Jack? Still hard at work?'

'Best messengers and errand runners in the district.'

'Of course. I was going to say that it keeps the urchins
off the streets, but that's not quite the case, is it? They're
scampering up and down the streets all day long.'

'Gainful employment. Mostly.' Jack took off his glasses
and polished them on his vest. 'I hate to think what
they'd be doing if she didn't have work for them.'

'School being out of the question.'

'Here? Not enough schools for a start. Among the
younglings, not one in ten can read and write.'

Aubrey made a mental note. He could see a project on
the horizon. 'I may have some work for Maggie's Crew.'

The whistle of the kettle brought Jack to his feet.
'Good. They like it when you have a job. You tend
to pay.'

The tea was surprisingly good. Aubrey cocked an
eyebrow at Jack.

'One of my friends at the docks supplies me.'

'From cargo that's gone missing?'

'Could be. Who's to say? Call it the workers' share.'
Jack put his cup down on top of another box. 'Drink up.
Then we'll go and find Maggie.'

'At this time of night?'

'She and her Crew have an unconventional working
schedule. Around the clock, if needs be.'

Aubrey gulped the tea and stood, taking care that the
floor was cat free. 'Take me to them.'

L
ITTLE
P
ICKLING WAS A DISTRICT OF CONTRASTS
. M
OSTLY
a warren of rooming houses and rundown tenements
where once-grand houses had been subdivided and
subdivided again, it also hosted many factories and warehouses
and a large gasworks. Jack wound his way through
this sparsely lit industrial part of Little Pickling until they
reached a freestanding building that had once been
impressive.

'The Society for the Advancement of Knowledge,'
Aubrey read aloud from the carving over the rather
grand entrance. 'A noble aim, I would have thought.'

'Noble, but doomed. The society may have wanted to
advance knowledge, but the founders had no idea about
money. It went broke.'

'Sad.'

'Of course, they weren't the original owners of this
place. It was built for Beauchamp's engineering project.
It went broke, too.'

Aubrey was about to raise the possibility of financial
bad luck being integrated into a building when a low
whistle came from overhead. Aubrey looked up in time
to glimpse a silhouette that dropped behind a parapet.

'We've been noticed,' Jack said.

'That's bad?'

'That's good. Much better for us to be expected than
unexpected.'

Just before Jack reached the boarded-over doors, he
turned left. 'This way.'

The stairs seemed to go down forever, much further
down than the level of the basement of the building. At
irregular distances, candles in jam jars had been left,
just enough to make the darkness difficult instead of
impossible.

Jack held up a hand to caution Aubrey. 'Almost there.'

'Almost where?' Aubrey said. He looked around at
the platform that stretched to left and right from the
end of the stairway. 'This tunnel isn't part of the railways,
is it?'

'Not as you know it.' Jack ran his hand along the tiled
wall and stepped out onto the platform. 'This is all that's
left of the hydraulic railway.'

Aubrey stopped dead.
The hydraulic railway
.

Great engineers were great engineers for many
reasons. Great magicians, likewise. Sir Cosmo Principality
Beauchamp was both. The first member of a famous
engineering family to show any magical aptitude, he
went on to fuse magic and engineering in ways that had
never been conceived of before.

Beauchamp fascinated Aubrey, especially his tragic
end. As a young man, he had immediate success in
designing bridges. He managed to blend high quality
steel and spells drawing on the Laws of Attraction to span
gaps many thought impossible. He moved on to shipbuilding,
aqueducts and other structures, all stunning
in design.

Then, forty years ago, Beauchamp had fallen in love
with railways.

His obsession began easily enough, engineering the
Moulton–Snapesby line with its cuttings and river
crossings. Soon he was engaged to construct stations,
locomotives, rolling stock of all kinds, one of the many
men who were bringing steam rail to the countryside
of Albion.

Beauchamp's great vision was elsewhere, however. He
wanted to free the choked streets of the capital, to transport
people from one side of the city to the other in
speed and comfort. It was the beginning of the age of the
underground railway.

But being a visionary, Beauchamp scorned the normal
approach of tunnels and steam engines. He had a grand
plan, one that removed the steam engines from the
depths and put them on the surface, for easy maintenance
and repair. Instead, he dreamed of a hydraulic railway.
Tunnels, not to keep water out, but to keep water in.
Watertight carriages, huge steam-driven pumps to move
the water – and the carriages – in smooth, quiet,
cushioned grace. No wheels, no engines, no smoke,
simply comfortably upholstered capsules to seat dozens
of passengers.

It all fell apart, of course. The seals on the tunnels
weren't tight enough to allow efficient pumping.
The huge engines on the surface were plagued with
problems. The tunnels leaked; the capsules ground to a
halt. Beauchamp died, penniless, of lung rot brought
about by supervising his workers too closely when
tunnelling.

Only a short, experimental stretch of the hydraulic
railway was ever finished and Aubrey was now standing
in it.

'Aubrey.' Jack nudged him. 'Are you all right?'

Aubrey blinked. 'I'm fine, Jack. Just impressed.' Dozens
of candles gleamed. The air still smelled damp, years after
the last hydraulic capsule had come to rest.

The platform was in the outer of the double tunnel –
Beauchamp's brilliant idea. It was essentially a long
walkway, a concourse, with doors that opened onto the
inner tunnel, the water-filled one where the capsules ran.
Aubrey counted twelve black openings in the long,
convex tiled wall, and imagined passengers filing
through, stepping into the capsules that were ready to
surge to the next station.

It was a grand idea and a grand failure. Nevertheless,
Aubrey admired Beauchamp for the audaciousness of
his vision.

The platform had never looked like this when
Beauchamp was in control, Aubrey decided. An assortment
of battered furniture, most likely rescued from
rubbish heaps, had found its way down to the depths, to
give the place the appearance of a long, narrow parlour,
albeit one decorated with a complete lack of consistency
or taste.

Candles and the occasional lantern were propped up
on tables; lamp stands, bookcases, kitchen dressers, ironing
boards and other spliced-together pieces of furniture
made the place look like a particularly jumbled jumble
sale. Aubrey thought he saw a tall construction that was
part pulpit, part dog kennel.

He frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. The
tingle of magic brushed him; it was distant, low-level, but
intriguing. He wondered if Beauchamp had used magic
in his construction and he immediately had an urge to
explore, but Jack had moved on.

Jack marched along the concourse, past figures reclining
on hessian bags, swathes of tattered fabric that still
had curtain rings attached, piles of clothing too ragged to
be worn. The faces that stared up at them were curious,
guarded, grubby and young.

None of them older than ten, I'll warrant
, Aubrey thought
as he followed Jack.

'No parents,' Jack muttered as they approached a large
dining table. A paraffin lamp stood at one end, while
three children sat, solemnly, like a panel of high court
judges.

'None of them?'

'No. They're lucky to have each other. I help when
I can. Now,' he said. 'Hello, Maggie. This is Aubrey
Fitzwilliam.'

Aubrey couldn't judge how old Maggie was. Fourteen?
Fifteen? He settled for young, even though she was clearly
older than anyone else in the disused station. She studied
him carefully and he assumed it was her customary
approach, something she would have learned on the
streets. She had long black hair, in a single plait. She wore
a green dress and yellow cardigan. Both were threadbare,
but they were clean, as was her face. She stood and offered
Aubrey a hand, which was also clean. 'Mr Fitzwilliam.
Thanks for the work you've sent our way in the past.'

The two boys either side of Maggie were tall, strong
looking, and didn't say a word. She glanced at the one on
her right and in an instant he was fetching chairs for
Aubrey and Jack.

'How's things, Maggie?' Jack asked.

'Well enough, thank you, Jack. We haven't lost anyone
lately.'

'Lost anyone?' Aubrey said.
Old before her time
was the
phrase that echoed in Aubrey's mind, but in Maggie's
case it had little of the sadness it usually carried. Her gaze
was direct, her speech was measured and careful.

'No-one looks out for us, you understand, Mr
Fitzwilliam. Living this way, we have a habit of disappearing,
one way or another. The Crew look after each
other, where we can.'