Word of Honour (29 page)

'Excellent.' Sir Darius rang the servant's bell. A quick
conversation with Harris, the butler, and all was arranged.

'Fifteen minutes, George. Stubbs will have the machine
waiting at the front door.'

When George had gone, Aubrey draped both arms
over the back of the chair and groaned.

'You're not really going to sleep all day, are you?' his
mother said.

'It sounds appealing, but I don't think so.'

'I'm at the museum this afternoon. Darius?'

'A hastily arranged Cabinet meeting for me, I'm afraid.
I may not be home until very late.'

'Don't worry about me,' Aubrey said. 'But if you're not
busy, I thought I might drop in and see you at the
museum, Mother.'

'Me? Whatever for? Are you volunteering to document
the backlog of specimens I have to sort out?'

'I wanted to see the Rashid Stone. Perhaps talk to
someone about it.'

Sir Darius cocked his head. 'Now, I know you well
enough, Aubrey, to realise you rarely do anything on pure
whimsy. You must have some sort of motive here.'

'It doesn't matter what his motive is,' Lady Rose said.

'He can't do it.'

'Er . . . Am I confined to quarters?'

'Tempting notion, but that's not it,' Lady Rose said.
'The Rashid Stone has been packed away, ready for its
trip back to Holmland on the
Imperator
.'

'I didn't know that negotiations had been finalised.'

'It's all about the Elektor's birthday,' Sir Darius said.
'A number of things have become urgent, apparently.
Urgent enough for Count Brandt to speak to the King.'

'Who intervened on behalf of his cousin, the Elektor,'
Lady Rose said, unhappily. 'The museum governors
didn't think it wise to refuse a direct approach from the
King.'

'Wait, Count
Brandt
spoke to the King about returning
the Rashid Stone? That doesn't make sense. He hates
the Holmland government.'

'It makes political sense,' Sir Darius said. 'By doing this,
Count Brandt shows that he supports the Elektor, who is
still phenomenally popular in Holmland, just as our King
is here. Brandt also shows that he can do something the
Chancellor couldn't, so his reputation goes up. It's a
clever move, but it suggests that Brandt isn't planning to
stay in Albion long.'

'He wants to return to Holmland and become
Chancellor himself.'

'Which would seem to be better for us than the
current Chancellor,' Lady Rose said.

Sir Darius nodded. 'In any event, the
Imperator
is sailing
on Monday. It'll give the current Chancellor a chance to
crow, I suppose, and tell the whole world that Albion
wants to appease Holmland.'

'You can't do anything about it? Simply refuse?'

'I'd like to. The Holmlanders looted the stone from
Aigyptos. They don't have any intention of returning it
to its rightful owners.'

'They rule Aigyptos with an iron fist. It's the oil, you
see, and it's a shame,' Lady Rose said. 'The Sultan is a
thoughtful man. He had a keen interest in finches, the last
time I spoke to him.'

'The Sultan of Memphis,' Aubrey said. 'Didn't he
attend Greythorn?'

'Thirty years ago,' Sir Darius said. 'They still talk about
his batting. He's a good man.'

'You've met him.'

'Back then, certainly.'

'More recently?'

Sir Darius grinned. 'Now, Aubrey, it wouldn't be
seemly for the Prime Minister of Albion to meet a
rebel leader.'

'That's not a "no", is it?'

'No.'

Lady Rose gazed at the ceiling. 'If you boys are just
going to fence with each other, I'm leaving.' She gazed at
the inspired disorder of the drawing room. 'I had one of
those posters around here somewhere. The Rashid Stone
posters. I wonder if Caroline would like it.'

Aubrey spied a rolled up tube of paper on a table
nearby, wedged in between a collection of rock crystals.
'Is this it?'

He unrolled it and, for an instant, the whole world
went away. The central aspect of the poster – a large
photographic reproduction of the Rashid Stone itself –
was all that he could see.

It was an excellent reproduction. So much so that he
could make out the first three characters in the baffling
script before it was overwritten with details of the exhibition.
And, if his quick translation of the stone they
found in the underground Roman shrine was correct,
they read: Death. Soul. Protection.

He was insensible to the world around him for
some minutes while he frantically thought through the
implications of this. He must have made intelligible
responses, for he had a dim notion that the conversation
went on around him without any strange
looks.

Aubrey stood and re-engaged with the world around
him. 'I really must get some rest.'

Sir Darius rose. 'And I must get to the Houses of
Parliament.'

He dashed to the sofa, kissed his wife on the cheek and
dashed out again.

Lady Rose looked at the doorway. 'I knew it would be
like this when I married him.' She stood. 'That's why I
promised I wouldn't sit around at home, waiting. I'm off
to the museum.'

And Aubrey was left alone.

W
ITH THE HELP OF A MAGNIFYING GLASS AND A STRONG
electric desk lamp, he spent some hours peering at
the mysterious fragment from the underground shrine.
He made little headway, finally admitting he needed
expert help.

He'd made some tentative notes, enough to excite him
about the link between the fragment and the Rashid
Stone. He was sure the possibility existed that one, or both,
of them might hold some clue to curing his condition.

He was unwilling to hope too much, but the chance
was there that the knowledge of the ancients might come
to his aid. Protection of the soul was a fundamental aspect
of working with death magic – something he had come
to understand all too late. And death magic was a major
concern for early magicians, so perhaps they had ways
forgotten to modern magicians, methods to reunite his
body and soul permanently.

He rubbed his eyes, sat back, snapped off the desk
lamp. The weariness he'd been holding at bay descended
on him like a thick, black fog. He stumbled to his fish
tank and hid the tablet under the sand, right outside the
octopus's cave.

Sleep beckoned. Left alone, the house quiet apart
from the muffled noises of the servants going about
their business, it should have been the perfect time for
napping.

So, naturally, Aubrey lay on his bed, unable to sleep.
Somewhere along the way, he'd apparently decided to
substitute worrying for sleeping.

He was worried about George, and his family. Aubrey
knew that George's father was a modern farmer in most
ways, adopting the latest techniques in scientific farming.

He'd not been averse to investigating magical techniques,
either; his apple orchard sported several bird scarers that
used a clever derivation of the Law of Opposites.

But in one way in particular, William Doyle was an
old-fashioned man: he was loath to accept help, especially
financial help. Aubrey could imagine a financial situation
getting steadily worse and worse, while Mr Doyle tried
one thing then another, and then one day waking up to
discover the farm was owned by someone else.

Aubrey could think of several ways to fix the debt. It
would be fun, organising a complex nesting of identities,
a trail of Person A paying Person B who owed money to
Person C and somehow having the Doyle farm ending
up safe and secure. He itched to do it.

But he wouldn't. He'd promised.

Even if the Doyles lose the farm?
a voice whispered.

George was no financial wizard, Aubrey appreciated
that. But perhaps his unequalled ability as a good listener
and sounding board would be of some help to his father.
Aubrey hoped so.

And Caroline. Aubrey worried about her and about
the goals she was setting for herself. Even though the
world was changing, it wasn't changing quickly enough
for a girl (
young woman?
) of Caroline's abundant talents
and ambition.

At the back of his mind, he'd always taken perverse
pleasure in the hard row he'd set himself to hoe. To excel
in multiple areas – magic, the military, academia and
politics – was foolish, overreaching, impossible. But it
suited him. Some people enjoyed a challenge. Aubrey
was bored to death without one – and more than one,
preferably.

He had a difficult road ahead. But he had to admit,
Caroline's aims seemed just as lofty – those she'd
disclosed – but her sex was going to make them even
more difficult to achieve. Aubrey worried that the realities
of an unequal world would break her spirit. It was
something he didn't want to see.

His father? Well, he was a fairly minor concern. Sir
Darius was the subject of political plotting, backstabbing
and general malfeasance, but he knew how to take care
of himself. He'd managed for years – although the added
strain of dealing with the shifting international situation
was something that Aubrey wouldn't wish on anyone. If
Albion went to war, Sir Darius would be responsible for
the lives of hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions.

His mother was fearsomely capable as well, but he did
worry about her worrying about his father's worrying.
His mother put great store on appearing unaffected by
weighty matters of state, and by her husband's commitments.
She had a rich life, she was prepared to tell
anyone, one that was not dependent on her husband.
This credo shocked many, to which Lady Rose declared
she gave not a fig.

But lately, Aubrey had seen the hint of anxiety in her
face. This tended to coincide with newspapers announcing
further Holmland aggression on the Continent, or
more fractiousness in the Goltans.

Both his parents were busy people and Aubrey was
glad of this. Without their various distractions, he worried
that they would notice his condition. He'd managed to
keep it from them, but with his decision to use his
magical powers, despite the dangers, they may notice
his physical condition go up and down more than previously.
He didn't welcome their intelligent regard turning
in that direction.

Aubrey found worrying seductive. It was tempting
to brood, sorting out 'Should have' and 'Why didn't I',
teasing apart the strands of regret, fear and hopelessness.
It was all-consuming.

Eventually, he shook his head and sat up. Worry was all
well and good, but it wasn't achieving much – and going
around and around over the same ground was so
boring
.
If he wanted his worries to lessen, he should do something
about them.

He glanced at the window, then stared. Evening had
stolen in. The gaslamps in the street were already lit. A
hansom cab trotted by; its lanterns were bright in the
gathering shadows.

Somewhere, sometime, he'd slept, right through lunch.
He'd worried before falling asleep, then dreamed worrisome
dreams, then woken to more worrying, all without
noticing the transitions.

'Well, that's enough of that, then,' he said aloud. He
poured cold water into his basin and dipped a facecloth
in. A vigorous face rub later, followed by an energetic
application of his hair brushes, and he was almost a new
person. That is, if he ignored the pinched look about
his cheeks, and the redness around his eyelids, and the
disturbing amount of hair his brushing had dislodged.

He stretched, squared his shoulders and decided it was
hard to be gloomy when he had a plan in front of him.

After what he'd discovered from the mysterious
inscription, he simply had to see the Rashid Stone before
it was shipped to Holmland. Copies of its inscriptions
were no good – he wanted to put his hands on the actual
stone itself.

Which meant he was going to break into the Albion
Museum.

T
HE
A
LBION
M
USEUM HAD OCCUPIED A NUMBER OF
different buildings throughout its history. The
current edifice faced Fanthorpe Square and had been
built in the reign of King Stephen, the current king's
grandfather. It had miles of galleries, four substantial
wings, and was a devil to heat in the winter.

Aubrey had always had an affection for its ugly
hotch-potch of architectural styles. King Stephen's
favourite architect had been Lionel Willoughby, who
proudly proclaimed he'd never had an original idea in
his life. His genius, he confided to everyone within
earshot – and for those who missed it, he wrote a five-volume
autobiography – lay in bringing together great
styles from around the world. When he was successful
it was a harmonious – if startling – whole. On an off
day it resulted in buildings that made people cry out in
horror if they came upon them unexpectedly.

The Albion Museum was one of Willoughby's
triumphs. Vaguely classical, with more pediments and
pillars than were strictly necessary, it looked serious,
impressive and weighty, perfect for the pre-eminent
museum in the country.

With an effort that left him doubled over and panting,
Aubrey managed to scramble over the tall iron fence and
lose himself in a clump of may bushes near the museum's
eastern wing. The windows on this side were dark, but
he knew that nightwatchmen patrolled the corridors.
The museum held many invaluable treasures from antiquity,
so the guarding wasn't perfunctory.

He'd come equipped. Not with George's trusty pry
bar, though the prospect had tempted him, but with
magical props.

He patted his pockets to make sure he hadn't lost
anything while scaling the fence. Chalk, always useful.
Beeswax. A bunch of assorted keys he'd collected over
the years. Matches. A small bottle of bicycle oil with a
sunflower seed in it. A silk scarf.

Now, to find a window. He had a cunning spell
ready, one that could use a prepared key on a lock at a
distance . . .

He heard footsteps and froze, not even daring to breathe.
The footsteps were careful, deliberate, authoritative.

They stopped right in front of his hiding place.

'You'd best come out of there.'

Aubrey stood and stared. 'Mother?'

Lady Rose wore a white gaberdine coat over her dress.

She had no hat – her hair was pulled back in a bun.
'I thought you'd appear sooner or later, Aubrey.'

'I . . . but . . . it . . .'

'Don't stand there gawping like a goldfish. This way.
I'll let you in.'

He pushed through the bushes, not even noticing
when a branch thwacked him across the face.

Lady Rose took him around a corner. A door stood
open. 'Here. I'll answer your questions once we're inside.
There's no telling who's lurking about these days.'

Numbly, Aubrey shook his head and followed her
inside. Lady Rose locked and tested the door, then studied
him. 'Generally you're a mystery to me, Aubrey, as I
imagine all children are to their parents. But sometimes
you're as clear as a pane of glass.'

'I try to be honest with you.'

'I know that, and I know that there are ways to
remain completely honest while keeping people in the
dark. Don't protest, you'll only tie yourself in knots over
that one.'

Aubrey gave up and simply nodded.

'Very good. This morning, your interest in the Rashid
Stone was obvious. When you didn't pursue your father
on stopping its shipment, I knew that you had plans.'

'Plans are a good thing.'

'Really, Aubrey, the sooner you go into politics the
better. That was a perfect politician's statement: it appeared
to have something to do with what I said, but it actually
said nothing at all.'

Aubrey decided a full frontal assault was the only
course left. 'I was thinking I'd steal the Rashid Stone.'

'Excellent. I was hoping you were going to say that.'

Aubrey couldn't have been more astonished if his
mother had suddenly turned into Dr Tremaine. 'I beg
your pardon?'

'A temporary appropriation, rather than stealing,
I'd call it,' Lady Rose said. 'Much better than letting the
Holmlanders take it away.' She frowned at him. 'I'm
assuming you want to return it to its rightful owners?'

'Er . . . I was just going to have a look at it before it
was shipped out.' He saw his mother's expression. 'Of
course, I'm happy to revise my plans. You think we
should stop the Holmlanders from having it?'

Lady Rose made a face. 'I feel sorry for Holmlanders.
Some fine people there, excellent scientists, but their
government seems to have more than the usual number
of blockheads in it. I know that politics attracts a certain
sort of person, but really – ' She broke off and looked
seriously at Aubrey. 'That's really why I want you to go
into politics, you know. Your father is a good man, but
he's outnumbered by scoundrels and buffoons. It might
even up the odds if you and Caroline get in.'

Aubrey jumped. 'What? What did you say?'

But Lady Rose had already disappeared through a
doorway.

When Aubrey found her, she was in a darkened
corridor. The only light came from a window that
looked out on the gaslit street. She put a finger to her
lips. 'There are bound to be people in offices and
workshops.'

She led him along the corridor. On the left the wall
was half glass, venetian blinds obscuring what lay behind.
Lady Rose opened the sixth door on the right.

Aubrey hadn't been in his mother's workshop for
months. It was unrecognisable. When he was there last, it
was tropical birds. Dozens of brightly coloured specimens
in glass cases, waiting to be classified. Now the whole
place was full of boxes, stacked up to ceiling height in
some places. It smelled of fish. 'Sea birds of the north,'
Lady Rose said when she saw Aubrey's wrinkled nose.
She lifted the top from the nearest box.

'Albatross?' Aubrey hazarded.

'Of course it's an albatross. Look at that beak.'

Aubrey peered closer. 'I'll take your word for it.'

'It is,' she said gently. 'But is it a waved albatross or a
young short-tailed albatross? The captain of our ship
had it mounted on a perch, quite proud of it he was, but
insisted I take it when he saw our other specimens.'
Lady Rose replaced the lid. 'Now, let's find this Rashid
Stone.'

Aubrey felt like an unprepared challenger in the ring
with a heavyweight champion. He was still reeling from
the shock of his mother's appearance and support for his
spot of burglary, when he walked into this most recent
uppercut. 'You want to come?'

'I'm here. I know the layout of this place. I'm not
incapable of clandestine activity.'

'No,' Aubrey said weakly. 'I mean, I imagine not. If you
put your mind to it.'

'Hmm. Ask your father to tell you about the time
I freed him and his squad from the Articari partisans,
while still keeping my collection of jungle beetles safe.'

'I will.'
At some moment when it might be useful to surprise
him
, Aubrey thought. Information was ammunition.

Lady Rose took a bullseye lantern from a shelf. Aubrey
had a match ready.

'Shall we go?' The light caught his mother's eyes and
Aubrey realised that she was serious about accompanying
him. And she was excited.

Lady Rose had never embarrassed Aubrey, which he'd
discovered was a rarity. It seemed as if the roles of most
boys' mothers was to embarrass them often, in public,
and with a total lack of understanding as to what was
going on. Lady Rose had never been like that. Aubrey
had always been proud of her calm, her self-assurance, her
ready wit and élan.

But this was different.

'Do you
have
to come?' he said.

'Yes. Now, straighten your collar. You look quite
disreputable.'

'Well, I am dressed in clothes that are meant to make
it easy to break into a major national institution. Disreputable
would seem to be part of the job description.'

'I see what you mean.' With a quick movement, she
took off her white coat. The dress underneath was a dark
emerald green. 'This should be less noticeable.'

Aubrey knew there was no sense arguing about it.
Once his mother had made up her mind, she was as
unstoppable as the tide. 'Which way?' he said, as if his
mother came with him on nefarious activities every day
of the week.

'It's crated up in one of the workshops. Best if we cut
through Aigyptian antiquities.'

Echoing footsteps announced the presence of the
nightwatchmen well in advance, and they took their
duties seriously enough for Aubrey and Lady Rose to
scamper aside a number of times. However, the many
large stone statues, stelae and sarcophagi provided useful
hiding places.

An unmarked door next to a jackal-headed god opened
onto a workshop. At first, Aubrey thought he'd taken a
dramatically wrong turn and ended up in a cabinetmaker's
shed. By the dim light that struggled through
grimy windows, he could make out racks of timber and
tools. The floor was covered with sawdust and shavings,
and the smell of cut wood was clean and sweet. For
a moment, Aubrey was reminded of William Doyle's
workshop at George's farm, where the young Aubrey
and George had admired Mr Doyle's careful woodwork,
turning rough timber into delicate objects – spoons,
bookends, buttons.

Suddenly, Lady Rose drew him into the shadows near
the entrance. She blew out the lantern, then she brought
her mouth close to his ear. 'The rear doors. They're open.'

Aubrey dropped to the floor. Carefully, he eased his
head out from behind the coat rack that stood near the
entrance.

Four or five figures – it was hard to tell in the indirect
light – were clustered around a crate in the doorway,
arguing in low but agitated voices that seemed to
require much finger-pointing. The crate stood about
five feet high and looked very weighty. Despite the
burliness of these intruders, it seemed as if the crate had
defeated them.

Aubrey pulled his head back. Someone else wanted the
Rashid Stone.

Why can't anything be simple?
he thought.
All I wanted to
do was break into the foremost museum in the land and have a
good look at one of their treasures. Is that too much to ask?

He wished that he'd come prepared for hand-to-hand
combat rather than simple burglary.

Matches. He had matches. He could work with that.
In fact, it might turn out beautifully. Scare off these
unwelcome guests, take the stone, then call the police and
give them the description of these villains, who'd take the
blame for the theft. It was a fine line, but Aubrey decided
that they deserved a good interrogation, at the least. Even
if they hadn't stolen the Rashid Stone, they
intended
to
steal it. Later, once the stone had been reunited with the
Sultan, Aubrey could let the authorities know the truth
of the matter. Leaving his name out, of course. Perhaps
some sort of moniker would be in order. The Liberator?
The Guardian of Looted Antiquities?

A crash came from the direction of the crate. The
cursing that followed was intense, and all the more
interesting for its restraint. It was conducted totally
in whispers, even though one of the cursers sounded as
if he was in considerable pain. Aubrey added 'well-disciplined'
to the description he was ready to give to
the police.

He took out the box of matches. The applications of
the Law of Intensification were well understood. Certain
processes could be intensified if the spell were very
precisely phrased. The precision was important, otherwise
the intensification could run rampant and get totally
out of hand. Aubrey had seen a practical demonstration
go badly wrong when a tuning fork's sound had been
shoddily intensified. The whole class had to flee the
room, hands clapped over ears, and all the windows of
the room had shattered before one of the senior masters
came and cancelled Mr Lapworth's spell.

Mr Lapworth hadn't remained long at Stonelea
School, even though he was the headmaster's wife's
nephew. The last Aubrey had heard, he was in Antipodea
and making a good fist of banking.

Aubrey had always used Mycenaean for his intensification
spells. It was a difficult, rigid language, but its very
rigidity gave him confidence where intensification was
concerned. He knew that an explosion was merely very
rapid burning,
intensified
burning, as it were, and he
didn't want an explosion in the confines of a museum
workshop.

He undertook an elaborate mime with his mother,
finishing with an injunction to cover her eyes. She
nodded and he gave thanks for all the hours the family
had spent playing Charades.

He held the box of matches in the palm of his hand.
Just as he was about to start the spell, another thump
came from the clumsy villains, and another stream of
hushed cursing.

It was perfect timing, covering Aubrey's whispered
Mycenaean. He pronounced each agglutinative syllable
carefully, concluded with a modest signature flourish,
then he threw the matchbox over his head and clapped
his hands over his eyes.

Even though Aubrey had confined his intensification
to light, he felt a wave of heat roll over him at the same
time as hard, white radiance crept through the cracks in
his fingers.

This time, the oaths weren't muffled.

Aubrey removed his hands from his eyes and stood.

'It's safe.'

His mother took her hands away and blinked. 'I
haven't seen your spellwork for ages, Aubrey. You have
improved.'

Aubrey was about to answer, modestly, when he
realised something wasn't right. If all had gone smoothly,
the villains should have been dazzled, then run off, afraid
that their doings had been discovered. The dazzling had
happened, as planned, but he couldn't recall hearing the
sounds of villains decamping the scene, in a northerly
direction or any other.