Word of Honour (18 page)

'Safety in numbers.'

'You might say that. This is our home. We have food,
a bit of money. It's better than what we'd have otherwise.'
She looked troubled. 'Apart from the stinks.'

'Stinks?' Jack said.

'From the tunnel. Doesn't happen all the time, but
rotten smells come out of it. Didn't used to.'

Aubrey looked at the gaps in the tunnel walls. They
were holes into space.

'Business is thriving, I hope,' Jack said.

'You should know, Jack,' she said primly. 'You send
most of it to us.'

She glanced at Aubrey. 'You were expecting someone
older, weren't you?'

'Perhaps. I didn't know what to expect, really.'

'I am the oldest, you know.' She gestured at the two or
three dozen who were watching the discussion with
varied levels of interest.

'And she has the best head among them,' Jack said. 'She
keeps a ledger, even.'

'I learned some figures, some reading,' she said. 'Before
Ma and Pa died.'

'It was TB,' Jack said softly. 'Your clinic helped,
Aubrey, but it couldn't save them. Maggie has no other
relatives.'

'There was just me,' she said, 'so I decided to do what
I could.'

'She started the Crew,' Jack said. 'Just a few, like her, in
the beginning.'

'Now we have more than we can take on,' Maggie
said. 'That's no good.'

'She's tough with them, too. They have to do lessons a
few days a week. She won't have any stealing.'

'I won't abide thieving,' she said. 'It's the road to ruin.'

'I'm impressed,' Aubrey said. 'And I'd like to do more
business with you.'

'Very good. What do you need? Errand runners?
Delivery boys? Dog walkers?'

'Watchers.'

Aubrey outlined his plan. Maggie listened carefully,
asking questions, adding suggestions along the way. Jack
sat back, arms crossed, pleased at how his protégé was
managing.

'Done,' Maggie said finally. The boy on her left produced
a large, leather-bound book. She opened it and
whipped out a pencil. The boy on her right moved a candle
closer. 'Around the clock watching of one Mr Spinetti,
the singer, for one month,' she said slowly as she wrote.

Aubrey had initially thought two weeks would be
sufficient, but had found himself persuaded to take on a
month. 'That's it. With daily reports.'

'Daily reports,' Maggie repeated, writing this down.

'We'll get letters to you, all right?'

'Excellent.'

'Half now, half when we're done.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You pay half our fee now, straightaway. At the end of
the month, we get the rest.'

Aubrey reached inside his jacket for his wallet, without
much reluctance. 'If I'm satisfied with the quality of your
work.'

'You will be.'

Maggie handed the cash over to the boy on her left.
He counted it, laboriously, and nodded. Then he reached
down and deposited the notes in a metal box.

'In the special place, Irwin,' Maggie said.

The boy nodded again. Then he looked at Aubrey
and Jack.

'Don't worry about them,' Maggie said. 'Go, go.'

Irwin disappeared into the shadows at the far end of
the platform, evidently to Maggie's satisfaction. 'Safe as
houses,' she declared.

Aubrey cocked his head. The low-level, background
magic he'd felt ever since he'd entered the tunnel had
suddenly surged, peaking in a powerful upwelling that
made his eyes widen. He tried to locate it, but the
magic disappeared before he could tell which direction
it came from.

Then he felt the concrete beneath his feet start to
vibrate.

'What's that?' Jack asked.

'Where?' Maggie asked.

'It's coming from the tunnel,' Aubrey said.

He stood. A rumbling noise was definitely coming
from the inner tunnel. Along the platform, children were
rising, some half-asleep, others more curious, eyes shining
in the candlelight.

The noise grew louder. Soon, it was an angry, bellowing
sound and Aubrey could feel it as much as hear it.
The floor shook and dust trickled down from overhead.
He was on his feet, but uncertain whether to run – and
in what direction.

'Aubrey?' Jack asked.

Aubrey hushed him with a gesture. He closed his eyes,
frowned, then opened them again. 'It's not magic. Not
any more.'

'Then what is . . . ?'

With a hissing roar, water burst out of the inner
tunnel, a solid stream smashing through the first doorway.
Jetting with such force that it looked like a solid bar
of metal, the water slammed into the wall opposite.
Instantly, the air was full of spray. With the moisture, all
the candles went out, leaving only the few lanterns to
shed any light.

The thunder of the water shook the whole platform.
Over the shrieks and cries of the children, another jet
burst through the second portal, then the third, and the
next, and the next right along the length of the platform.

Each jet slammed into the wall opposite and exploded,
venting its fury in all directions. Water surged upward,
roaring along the curve of the tunnel, and to either side.
The concourse became a world of spray and panic, underscored
by the growl of an ocean let loose.

Aubrey barely had time to grab a brass pipe running
along the wall when he was engulfed. His breath was
taken away by the cold, but by the time he could cry out,
it had rolled over him and was gone. He shook the water
from his eyes then another wave struck and tried to tear
his grip loose. For an awful instant, his fingers felt as if
they were slipping. Aubrey had visions of being swept
away, smashed against the tiles by the hurtling water,
unable to draw breath. He gritted his teeth and hung on.

After these two surges, the flood slackened. Aubrey
let go, panting, his clothes sodden and heavy. The water
was waist-deep. Desperately, he sought for Jack and
Maggie but couldn't find them. He was surrounded by
children who were floundering, panic-stricken, wailing
and cursing. The water regathered its strength and
roared through the doorways.

Abruptly, the flood began to ease. Each doorway
became a mere torrent, then a cascade, and – to his vast
relief – Aubrey was able to slog through the water.
By the time he reached the first of the children, the
doorways were dribbling like a tap on the top floor of a
tenement building.

Jack appeared through the misty gloom. He looked as
if he'd been dunked in the village pond. His glasses were
fogged. 'What can we do?' he said stoutly enough, with
only the barest quaver in his voice.

'Ignore the ones who are crying.'

'What?'

'It's the ones who are unable to cry who may be hurt
worst.' Aubrey forced his way through floating bundles
of cloth and furniture. He scanned the bedraggled Crew.
'If they have enough energy to cry, we can safely tend to
them later.'

Not far away, a small form floated. Desperately, Aubrey
staggered through water that was only knee-deep,
but his heart fell when he made out that the child was
face down.

He scooped the young girl up in both hands. Her eyes
were closed, but she rewarded his efforts with a huge,
gasping cough, and another. 'Take her, Jack.' He thrust the
girl on his blinking friend.

Maggie and some of the older children joined the
search. Aubrey found more in distress. One was unconscious,
a lad of five or six, drifting on his back. He had a
gash on his forehead, but he was breathing. 'Can you get
him to a doctor?' he said to Maggie, who'd joined him
in his task. 'Easy there,' he said to the small boy, who
groaned and opened his eyes.

Right at the end of the platform, he found a
boy tangled in a tattered woollen blanket. He wasn't
breathing.

Aubrey remembered his cadet training. He made sure
the boy's mouth was clear, then pumped his chest with
his hands, squeezing the water from him.

The lad hawked, choked, then drew in a deep, shuddering
breath. He opened his eyes and sat up. 'I'm all
wet,' he said with wonder.

Aubrey's body responded. His knees gave way and he
sat, with a splash, in a puddle, as around him the children
dragged themselves about, crying, chattering, looking for
somewhere dry.

The water had almost drained away, leaving a scene
of devastation. Furniture was overturned and sodden.
Heaps of bedclothes had fetched up against the walls, like
seaweed after a storm. A few candles were being relit
with tapers from the surviving lanterns.

Maggie sloshed over. 'I think we've got a broken bone
or two. We're taking them to Dr Wells.'

Aubrey stood. He started brushing himself off, but
quickly gave up. 'Isn't that a long way to go?'

'He'll treat them for nothing,' Jack said, 'and he doesn't
complain about being woken up.'

I must make sure Dr Wells is handsomely paid
, Aubrey
thought.

'Does this sort of thing happen often, Maggie?' Jack
asked.

'Never seen it before. I thought we were safe here.'

Aubrey looked toward the doorways. 'Are you in a
hurry to go, Jack?'

'Why?'

'I'd like to do a little exploring.'

A
UBREY LEANED THROUGH THE PORTAL AND HELD OUT HIS
lantern. The inner tunnel was completely round, made
of iron segments twice the height of a person and – as
Maggie had noted – it smelled.

Just inside the first doorway, he could make out the
huge iron ring that would slow down a capsule as it came
into the station and hold it at the right level for embarking
and disembarking. The leather padding on the inside
of the ring was hard and cracked, and still dripping from
the flood that had thundered through.

He turned to his left and saw four more great rings,
each with slip-sockets to allow release and capture of
the capsule.

He shook his head in admiration at Beauchamp's
daring. It was a folly, but a glorious, spectacular folly.

'D'you think this is a good idea?' Jack said from
behind him.

'Possibly not. We'll know soon enough.'

One-handed – the other holding the lantern –
Aubrey climbed through the portal and down the
curved ladder.

Even though the sloping sides of the tunnel were still
wet, he was able to stand without slipping into the knee-deep
water at the bottom. His lantern glinted on it and
reflected off the wet metal sides, scoured clean by the
flood that had disappeared as fast as it had come.

Behind him, a curse and a splash. He turned in time to
see Jack stagger to his feet, dripping. 'I didn't think I was
wet enough,' he said, and he wiped his face with a hand.
'But this should do it.'

Aubrey studied the weak current in the bottom of the
tunnel, then turned and edged in the direction the water
was coming from. He'd only gone a hundred yards or so
– with Jack gamely following – when he came to the
bricked-up end of the tunnel.

'Aubrey.' Jack tugged on his arm and pointed.

A ragged hole had been punched through the metal of
the tunnel on the left, a few feet from the brickwork.
A yard or so across, Aubrey couldn't imagine the sort of
force required to make such a rent. Water still trickled
from it. He bent, but couldn't see far, and had to jerk
back his head when a wave heaved out, splashing into the
tunnel. Jack danced aside with a cry of dismay, the sort
that a wet man gives when he realises he's just become
wetter.

Aubrey could hear the sound of rushing water coming
through the gap, and a strange, whirring clatter, but he
couldn't see a thing.

'Any ideas?' Jack asked.

'The river's down that way. It could be an aquifer, a
drain, something diverted down in this direction.' Aubrey
straightened. 'The water was clean.'

'Relatively. I take it you mean that it wasn't sewage.

Thank goodness.'

'Quite. No, this was river water. What time is it?'

Jack looked startled, then consulted his pocket watch.
'Just after one.'

'High tide.'

Aubrey hummed a little. If the tidal surge up the
river had become diverted into a nearby tunnel, which
couldn't cope and burst, diverting water this way . . .

'Are there any other tunnels around here?'

Jack laughed. 'The city is full of 'em, Aubrey, I thought
you knew that. Not just the underground, but access
tunnels for repairs to building basements, sewer mains,
even private pneumatic tunnels and miniature railways
that some companies have put in, electrically driven, to
scoot packages all around.'

It was a subterranean world Aubrey had never really
contemplated. Pipes, wires, tunnels, it was a veritable
jungle underneath the staid old city. 'I think Maggie had
better look for a new headquarters,' he said. 'I don't think
this one will be habitable for some time.'

B
LEARY-EYED
, A
UBREY STAGGERED ONTO THE
G
REY
-thorn
train just before it left. He threw his hat and
his travelling bag onto the luggage rack, hung his jacket
on the hook by the door and blessed the designers of
the first-class carriages for their forethought in providing
seats that were plush, comfortable and conducive
to sleep. An extra bonus, one that he couldn't attribute to
the designers, was that he was alone in his compartment,
with no-one he had to be polite to.

He ached from his battering in the underground flood
and the pocket thunderstorm, but it was healthy bruising
rather than the pernicious pain that came when his body
and soul were drifting apart. He felt perversely satisfied
after the subterranean adventure, glad he'd been able to
help Maggie's Crew, and pleased that – with his surveillance
in place – he was making a positive move in this
strange struggle with Dr Tremaine. It was almost as if
it were being conducted by correspondence – a move,
then a lag, then a response.

But all the time, Aubrey had the feeling of forces being
marshalled, battalions being manoeuvred and battlefields
being chosen. A confrontation was looming, but when?

He settled himself in.
A minute
, he thought.
I'll be asleep
in a minute.

The train moved out of the station and Aubrey closed
his eyes. He could feel the easeful embrace of sleep starting
to enfold him.

The train dropped off the edge of the world.

Totally unprepared, Aubrey flew out of his seat. His
stomach shot up, slammed off the roof of his mouth and
smacked back down again. Desperately, he flailed for a
handhold, and then – of all things – he banged his funny
bone. He hissed as sparks of pain ran up and down his
arm, turning it into a limp, fuzzy, useless object. Handholds
forgotten, he landed back on the seat with enough
force to wind him.

When his arm returned to normal, he noticed that
the compartment was almost completely black. With the
shouts and cries for help, Aubrey had an awful moment
when he thought he was dreaming, taken back to the
flood in the hydraulic railway station. Then a guard – tall,
sandy-haired, missing his cap, but with a good, steady
bullseye lantern – threw open the door. 'You all right,
young sir?'

'I'm fine. Just a little shaken. Can I help?'

'Just make your way to the back of the carriage, sir,
if you please.'

'What's happened?'

'Not sure, sir. Looks as if the train's fallen into a hole.'

Suddenly, the compartment dropped a further foot.
Amid the renewed crashing and groaning, both Aubrey
and the guard grabbed at the walls to steady themselves.

The guard grinned, nervously. 'Better step lively, sir.'
The guard moved along the passage, offering his help
to the other compartments in a solicitous, calm manner
that made Aubrey proud to be a Albionite. In crisis or
upheaval, the ordinary man in the street (
or woman
, he
added mentally, hearing Caroline's voice in his head)
could be relied on to button down and soldier on. It was
part of the Albionite makeup, like knowing how to wait
in a queue, enjoying the company of dogs and understanding
the rules of cricket.

Another conductor was waiting at the end of the
carriage. He held a lantern to help passengers off the train.
When Aubrey alighted, he saw that they were in a
tunnel, but the track directly under the locomotive had
subsided. This meant that the first three carriages of
the train – and the locomotive – were at a forty-five
degree angle, more or less. The locomotive was canted to
the right, but all its wheels were still on the track.

The conductor pointed Aubrey back toward the
station, which was only a few hundred yards away.
He looked at the line of passengers making their way in
that direction, and he decided that a fortunate set of
circumstances had come together to prevent a disaster.
The train was still picking up speed after leaving the
station and the subsidence occurred under a straight
section of track. If either of this had been different . . .

He shuddered.

Navvies were already hurrying along the tracks, against
the flow of passengers, carrying tools, ropes and lengths
of heavy timber. Every second man had a powerful
lantern. Aubrey stood for a moment, then turned away
from the station and joined the first wave of heavy-booted
labourers as they made their way to the distressed
locomotive.

Last night's incident in the old hydraulic railway tunnel
was on his mind. A second subterranean anomaly might
be totally unrelated, but Aubrey couldn't let his curiosity
go unsatisfied.

He searched in his pockets until he found an old
railway timetable. With that folded over, and a pencil
in his hand, it provided enough of George's protective
colouration to allow him to mingle with the navvies
unchallenged.

No need for an invisibility spell
, he thought smugly as he
pretended to scrutinise one of the driving wheels of the
locomotive.
No magic needed at all.

The engineer was uninjured, to judge from the
wrathful indignation he was venting on the impressed
navvies. The thoroughly soot-coated individual sitting on
the ground had to be the stoker, Aubrey guessed. He was
holding a startlingly white handkerchief to his forehead
but otherwise seemed to be in fine fettle, joking with
those around him.

Aubrey's thoughts turned to wondering how the
authorities were going to get the train out of the mess it
had wound up in. Magic, muscle or machinery? Or a
combination of all of these?

The leader of the navvies was a middle-aged man,
bewhiskered and wearing a bowler hat that had seen
better days. He swung a pick lazily in his left hand as he
listened to the engineer sound forth on the poor quality
of the new tunnelling works. When the engineer finally
petered out, the navvy boss leaned his pick against the
locomotive's bumper and led the applause.

Just the sort of man who knows what's going on
, Aubrey
thought. The navvies had broken up their admiring circle
and were trudging to the front of the locomotive. Aubrey
fell in beside the boss. 'Can I help?'

The bewhiskered man glanced sideways. Aubrey saw
him take in his clothes, his soft hands, his youth. 'Thank
you, young sir. Best if you don't get in the way.'

'Last thing I want to do. I was in the train, though,
when it happened. I thought I could tell you what
went on.'

'No need for that, no disrespect intended. It's pretty
clear, it is.'

'Is it? What happened?'

The look the navvy boss gave him wasn't contempt.
Not quite. 'Fell in a bloody big hole, begging your
pardon.'

'Of course, of course.' Aubrey realised he was doing a
fine job of confirming every low opinion the navvy boss
had ever held about the well-off. 'This sort of thing
happen often, does it?'

Contempt shifted to a strange sort of pity. 'Not really,
no.' He shot a look at the sleepers and ballast under the
tracks. 'Though I'm not surprised on one of Rokeby-bloody-Taylor's jobs, begging your pardon.'

Mild interest suddenly became a raging curiosity.
'Rokeby-Taylor? What do you mean?'

'It's his company as what's put in this stretch of track,
and the tunnel, from here to Brown Box Hill. Just like
the Southern Line tunnel under the river. Made himself
a lot of money, I'm sure, but not by overspending on
planning or materials, if my meaning is plain enough,
begging your pardon.'

'Quite plain enough.' Aubrey stared at the locomotive.
The engine was still steaming, but Aubrey could see the
boiler was cracked. The locomotive would require a great
deal of work before it would run the tracks again.

Rokeby-Taylor. The cost-cutter. The pocket-liner. The
gambler. A man whose affairs were catching up with
him, if Aubrey's father could be believed. But a man still
well embedded in Albion society.

The thought leaped into his head, unbidden and
unanticipated.
What a perfect target for Holmland blackmail
.

A loan from an agreeable foreigner at first, then a larger
one, and before he'd know it, he'd be enmeshed. Then
how would it go? 'Well, Mr Rokeby-Taylor, if you can't
pay back your money, how would you like to clear your
debt by doing us a little favour? Nothing difficult. Just
some papers we'd like to see.'

At first.

'Platform's that way, young sir,' the navvy boss said.
'And thanks for your help.'

'I . . . well . . .'He shrugged. 'Sorry. I was getting in the
way, wasn't I?'

The navvy boss pushed back the brim of his hat
and scratched his brow. He looked thoughtful for a
moment. 'That's not what I meant, Mr Fitzwilliam. Was
talking about your Broad Street Clinic, the one your
family set up. Saw you there when it opened. Dr Wells
saved my daughter, he did, young Dorothy, when she
had the gripe.'

Aubrey thrust out his hand. 'She's well now, I hope.'

The navvy boss's hand was huge, but his grip was
gentle. 'Thriving and singing like a bear.'

'Bird.'

'No, a bear. Joy of our life, but not much of a singer,
is our Dorothy.' He turned Aubrey's hand over and
inspected it. 'Not done much shovelling lately, I see.'

'No, not lately.'

'Then leave this to us.' He put his fingers to his lips and
whistled, one short, hard blast. 'Come now, boys, let's see
what we can do to save bloody-Rokeby-bloody-Taylor's
train line.'

A derisive cheer greeted this and the gang of navvies
surged past, with wheelbarrows, picks, shovels, planks,
crowbars, ropes and lanterns. Aubrey wanted to stay, but
he minded the boss's words. These men had a job to do.

B
ACK AT THE STATION
, A
UBREY AND THE OTHER PASSENGERS
were directed to another platform. The roundabout
remedy took them via underground to Knoxton station,
north of the disaster zone, where a new Greythorn train
was waiting for them. Their luggage, they were assured,
would follow them. Aubrey was sceptical, but didn't say
anything. The authorities were doing their best.

This time, he did manage to sleep.

W
HEN
A
UBREY FINALLY GOT TO HIS ROOMS, AN HOUR OR
so after an uninspiring railway lunch, George was waiting
for him.

He let his newspaper sag. 'You look in one piece, at
least. Thank goodness.'

'Hello, George. It's good to see you, too.' Aubrey
stared. His travelling bag was on the floor next to his bed.
'When did that get here?'

'Railways chap delivered it an hour ago.'

Aubrey made a mental note not to be so sceptical
about Albionite railways. He yawned. 'How are things at
the farm?'

'They've been better,' George said shortly. He started
to add to this and then appeared to change his mind.
'Caroline rang and left a message. She said that your
train had been involved in some sort of accident or
other.'

'She was worried?'

'Hard to say. She wanted more information, is how I'd
put it.'

'Oh.' Aubrey threw himself on his bed. He lay with his
arms behind his head. 'I feel like a chef, George, with a
pudding of many parts. It hasn't quite come together yet,
but I think with some brisk beating and a good, hot bake
in the oven, it might reveal itself.'

'That'd be a metaphor, I take it,' George said. He stood,
stretched, then spun around one of the wooden chairs
and sat with his chin resting on his hands.

'Indeed. I thought I was looking for Dr Tremaine,
but it turns out that things are much more complicated
than that.'

'Hmm. That's a change.'

'I know, I know. But remember the Scholar Tan:
A
forest is not always a forest. It is a thousand different plants of
a hundred different types. But sometimes, it's just a forest.
'