Word of Honour (25 page)

His scuffing uncovered something that clinked when
he nudged it with his foot. With astonishment, he
realised that it was a chain.

He gouged at the earth with his heel and discovered
that the chain seemed to run underneath the tunnel
floor, extending into the distance.

'What is it?' George asked.

'An enigma.'

'One of those spiny anteater things from Antipodea?
How did it get here?'

Aubrey lifted his head only to see George grinning at
him.

'Now,' George said, 'for a second, you actually thought
I'd confused enigma and echidna, didn't you?'

'Touché, George. Now that you've kept me on my
toes, I'll ask you – what's that behind you?'

'I feel like I'm in a pantomime,' George said. He
turned, but slowly, ready to disengage himself from any
upcoming joke.

Twenty or thirty yards away at the edge of the lantern's
light, was a shadowy bulge, an irregularity in the straight,
sheer stone of the foundations.

'Something worth investigating, in my book,' Aubrey
said. He led the way, cautiously.

The lantern light revealed that the side tunnel ended
in solid rock. An arm of the rock projected, punching
through the corner of the foundations, which were built
right up to it, butting up against it with a combination of
masonry skill, iron work and reinforced concrete.

'North,' he said. 'Which way is north?'

Caroline frowned, but pointed back in the direction
they'd come. 'That way.'

'Yes. Of course.'

'This rock is part of the bank,' George said. 'It's been
built around it.'

Aubrey tried to remember the layout of the Vault
Room. What was where?
Then he had it. 'It's the Old Man of Albion. The rest
of him, anyway.'

George stared. Even Caroline looked impressed. 'This
goes right through into the bank?'

'Oh yes. Part of the history and soul of the place.'
Aubrey slapped it. Then he lifted his hand and stared at
it. 'Of course, I could be wrong.'

'Now, Aubrey,' Caroline said,' being inscrutable doesn't
help us at all here. What's going on? Plain, simple explanations,
please.'

Aubrey rubbed his temples. Plain simple explanations
for fiendishly complicated phenomena? 'I'll try.' He rubbed
his hands together. 'It's a fake.'

George gaped, but Aubrey could see Caroline speeding
through the implications. 'Dr Tremaine?'

'It's his back door,' he said. 'After the first robbery
attempt, the foundations were reinforced from the inside
– thick steel plate and whatnot. Except for the Old Man.'

George reached out and tapped the rock with his pry
bar. 'Sounds real enough to me.'

'Magic, George. For all intents and purposes, this is as
solid as mountains. But Dr Tremaine has removed the
original Old Man of Albion and replaced it with a
lookalike.'

'Lookalike?' George said. 'Sound-alike and feel-alike too.'

'He's no petty magician.'

'The possibility of your making a mistake here is a
remote one?' Caroline said.

Aubrey debated this for a moment. Then he shook his
head. 'I don't think so. But remind me if this goes spectacularly
wrong, will you?'

'Naturally,' she said, but she smiled.

Aubrey had an instant to regret how he'd mishandled
everything to do with Caroline, but an instant is as long
as a lifetime when it comes to self-chastisement. Aubrey
managed to kick himself a good number of times in
between one tick of his watch and the next.

If only things had gone differently
, he thought and then
rephrased it.
If only I'd done things differently
. Sharper, less
pleasant, but more accurate.

He sighed, caught it, and turned it into an exhalation
that he hoped signified urgency, determination and
fortitude.

'Asthma, Aubrey?' Caroline asked.

'Asthma? Me? No.' He thumped his chest and winced.

'Like a bell, I am.'

'Excellent. Now, what are you proposing?'

'If Dr Tremaine left this as a back door, he must have
some way to get in.'

'A key?' George suggested.

'Metaphorically speaking, that's right. This key, however,
will be some sort of spell.'

'Shouldn't be too hard,' George said. 'You were able to
sneak into that Banford Park place, where Dr Tremaine
had your father hidden. You tricked his security spells
there.'

'Yes. And I don't think Dr Tremaine is a big enough
fool not to have realised what went on there. He would
have changed any spells he's using for such a thing.'

Caroline nodded. 'It'd be like leaving locks unchanged
after burglars had broken in and made off with your keys,
as well as the silverware. To extend George's metaphor.'

'Extend away,' George said. 'I'll set them up, you two
can run with them.'

Aubrey examined the stone. It had every appearance
of solidity. He could even see scrape marks where dirt
had been cleared away. If it was an illusion, it was a
perfect one.

He put his hands against it. No doubt about it, he could
detect faint traces of magic – and it had the hallmarks of
a Tremaine spell. Aubrey guessed that most magicians
would be unable to feel the residue, and none but him
would be able to determine the spell-caster's origin. It was
turning out to be another aspect of the peculiar magical
bond he'd established with the renegade.

Which was well and good, but it didn't give him a clue
as to how to get into the vault.

He began humming as he inspected the rock where it
joined the foundations. Not a crack showed. Aubrey
doubted that he could fit a piece of paper between the
dressed stone and the substance of the Old Man – or
the fake Old Man.

Perhaps he could work on some sort of osmotic principle,
changing his body so that it could ooze through
the rock. He shook his head. No, a stupid idea. It would
take too long, and what use would that be anyway? How
could anyone get out again with loot?
Still, he was pleased. His brain was working, throwing
up possibilities.

'I'm going to have another look at that tunnelling
machine,' George said.

'Do you think that's wise?' Caroline said.

'Aubrey's thinking. He could be some time.'

'Are you sure?'

'I've seen this before. Best thing to do is to leave him
undisturbed. If we stand around, we're just a distraction.
You more so, naturally.'

Caroline shook her head. 'Very well. Let's see what we
can find out about that tunneller, shall we?'

Aubrey was left alone, but he hardly noticed. He
conjured up a small glow light, barely the size of a pea,
without really thinking about it – without noticing that
this simplest of spells sapped his energy, added to the
strain of holding onto his soul.

He stood in front of the mass of stone and plucked at
his chin. A key. This special back door needed a key.

What sort of magic had Dr Tremaine used? Without
knowing exactly what branch of magic, Aubrey assumed
the spell would be unusual, outlandish even, and would
pay very little heed to established conventions. It might
be crude and powerful, or elegant and subtle.

Which is like saying it could be anything at all
.

He flexed his fingers, then rubbed his hands together.
He leaned close to the rock of which the Old Man of
Albion was but an extension. When he put his ear on it
he relished the coolness. Slowly, he spread his hands and
placed his fingertips on the surface of the rock, either side
of his head.

He closed his eyes. As much as it was against his
nature, he allowed himself to become entirely passive.
He waited, receptive, allowing the magic to come to
him, ready to sense the faintest touch, the merest hint of
its nature.

Time passed, but Aubrey was only aware of it in an
abstract sense. He opened his eyes. His fingers tingled
when he took them from the rock. Frowning, he rubbed
them together.

The rock was a sham, it was clear. A cleverly
constructed magical facsimile, it had all the appearance
and solidity of the real thing, but with the right magical
key a substantial part would vanish, leaving a comfortable
access into the vaults of the Bank of Albion.

All this he had been able to sense quite quickly; the
revelation was that the key was a spoken one.

It was a crucial discovery, but it still left the doorway
locked.

The standard technique in these matters would be
to construct a spell that would generate and articulate
words, one at a time, until the correct one was stumbled
upon. This also showed the limitations of brute force, as
the process could take a lifetime or two.

What Aubrey needed was a crib, a hint as to the type
of key word that had been used. But where to start?
Aubrey whirled, heart racing, and stared back along the
tunnel. His silence had been suddenly interrupted by a
short, sharp explosion. It was followed by a growl, a deep
mechanical rattling which stuttered and cut off.

Then all was quiet except for George's cursing.

Aubrey was already racing towards the disturbance
when he registered that George's swearing wasn't
shocked or fearful. It was the heartfelt tone of voice he
reserved for recalcitrant machinery.

Rounding the corner, he slowed, both astonished and
amused at the sight before him.

George had his head and shoulders buried in the
innards of the tunnelling machine so far it looked as if
the contraption was eating him. Caroline was in the
cabin, scowling at the instrument panel.

Without removing his head, George flapped a hand.

'Try again!'

'Get out of the way first!' Caroline called.

George straightened. He'd removed his jacket and he
had a large grease smear on one cheek. He smiled at his
friend. 'Aubrey, we've got this thing working –'
The rest of his words were cut off by a deafening blast
from the belly of the tunneller. Smoke erupted from a
dozen different vibrating places. The whole thing shook
like a volcano that had decided enough was enough and
it
really
needed to clear its throat.

George stood back, beaming. 'Splendid, what?'

Aubrey was about to offer his congratulations when
the tunneller coughed, missed more than a few strokes,
and ground to a halt. George eyed it menacingly. 'Ghastly
machine.' He glanced at Aubrey. 'I thought those printing
presses were uncooperative. This thing makes them look
as placid as a draught horse.'

Caroline leaped down from the cabin. 'I think the fuel
line might be choked, with all the rock dust that must
have been flying around. Would you like me to check,
George?'

Aubrey finally found his words. 'How did you get it
started?'

Caroline frowned. 'What?'

'It was locked. I checked it when we first found it.
The ignition control was locked by the same sort of spell
I'm grappling with up there.'

'Oh that.' Caroline waved a hand with a gesture that
was so elegant it would make a ballet master cry. 'It was
a magical key lock, verbal.'

Aubrey goggled.

'I thought everyone knew that,' George said smugly.

'Yes,' Caroline said. 'I would have thought you'd see
that, with all your magical experience.'

'Key. The key word.'

'Yes, that's the nub of the problem, isn't it?' she said.
'Once I had it, the lock fell away and I could engage
the ignition. Now, if only George can clear this fuel
line . . .'

'But how did you find out the key word? Luck?'

'I don't trust to luck, Aubrey, you know that. It lets one
down at the most awkward times.' She smiled, wickedly,
and Aubrey saw how she'd been playing with him.

'I apologise,' he said quickly.

'What for?'

'For whatever I've done to make you keep me in
suspense like this.'

'Oh, you've done nothing in particular. This time. Just
keeping you on your toes.'

'Consider my toes totally extended at all times. Now,
can you tell me how you came up with the key word?'

'It was written on a piece of paper pinned to the
instrument panel.'

Aubrey blinked. 'I may be forced to revise my estimate
of our foe's omnipotence.'

George shrugged. 'So he's forgetful. He can still be
dangerous, you know.'

'And what was the key word, out of interest?' Aubrey
said.

'It wasn't a word. It was a phrase.'

'Good idea. Even harder to guess.'

'Except if it's written down right in front of one,'
George said.

'Of course. And what was this phrase?'

'The Lady of the Lake.'

Aubrey narrowed his eyes and stared at the rocky roof
overhead. 'The Lady of the Lake,' he repeated. 'It must
mean something to him.'

'Of course it does,' George said. 'It's the name of that
show. He sings songs from it. I read about it in the newspaper:"
A charming, romantic fantasy. "'
'An opera?'

'Light opera,' Caroline said.

'I thought it was an operetta,' George said, interested.

'Regardless,' Aubrey said, 'Tremaine sings songs
from it?'

'In his stage show. As Spinetti.'

Aubrey stood motionless as thoughts bounced around
in his head. It could be the crib he was looking for.
Music was apparently on Tremaine's mind – the reviews
showed that he wasn't taking his role as a singer lightly.
With his penchant for plots, counter-plots, false plots
and plots that look like plots but are – underneath –
schemes masquerading as plots, small things like key
words could be hard to remember. What better way to
remember them than to use something that was already
on his mind?

'Let's leave the tunneller for now,' Aubrey suggested.

'I need your help to get into the Vault Room.'

'Happy to.' George actually gave the tunneller a kick.
It was a light one, but the machine boomed hollowly, as
if remorseful.

'How, Aubrey?' Caroline asked. 'Magic is your area of
expertise, not ours.'