Word of Honour (7 page)

Aubrey rolled his eyes. He had always found that
the boastfulness of a magician's claims were in inverse
proportion to his actual effectiveness. The guards,
however, hesitated, until their grey-bearded leader
stepped forward. Aubrey was reassured by the man's
military bearing. 'Surrender,' he said in a sergeant-major's
voice, one that had drilled more than its fair share of
recruits. 'Your time is up.'

'Not until I'm escorted to the main vault, where I will
melt the door with the power of a thousand suns,' the
villain said. He gestured dramatically.

'Not likely,' the greybeard growled. 'At 'em, lads.'

The guards closed in. The chief villain took a step
backward, then seemed to remember his role. He threw
up both hands and began to chant a spell.

The guards halted their advance, knowing magic when
they heard it. Aubrey listened carefully, and had to admit
that the villain knew his Sumerian. Even though he
hurried, he managed each syllable clearly and ended with
a showy flourish of a signature. He then slammed his
right fist into his left palm.

Aubrey recognised that the spell used the Law of
Magnitude, with the intention of turning the fist strike
into a barrage of sound. Despite the presence of the
so-called magical suppressors, he felt the sudden build-up
of magical power. 'Cover your ears!' he urged, and then
he felt a strange, unsettling wave of magic.

Nothing happened. The chief villain gaped, stared at
his hands, turned to his colleagues as if he were about
to complain, then they were buried under an avalanche
of guards.

'Splendid!' Rokeby-Taylor crowed over the hubbub
of astonishment that filled the chamber. 'As you see,
any magic is nullified by the suppressors. It doesn't
matter what type, an equal and opposite effect is created
and the final result is as you see.' Rokeby-Taylor
beamed. 'A timely trial indeed.'

'Very timely.' Sir Darius watched thoughtfully as
the struggle in the middle of the chamber proved to be
short-lived. 'Most fortunate for you, Clive.'

'Well, the bank won't have any doubts about the
efficacy of the devices now, will they?' Rokeby-Taylor
glanced around. 'I hope some of the governors were
watching.'

'Sir Norman was,' Aubrey said. That particular
governor would give a good account of the magic
suppressors, he was sure.

The guards separated and marched the villains out.
The foiled spell-caster looked particularly affronted at
his unexpected end. 'This wasn't supposed to happen!' he
cried. 'I wasn't told about this!'

His protests dwindled as he was hauled out of the
bank, along with his unhappy cronies, and Aubrey found
himself wondering at the convenience of the attempted
robbery. It was a perfect demonstration of the effectiveness
of the magic suppressors, with the governors'
meeting and the Prime Minister in attendance.

Very convenient.

'Your company should be flooded with orders,'
Sir Darius said to Rokeby-Taylor, 'once word of this gets
around.'

'I should hope so.'

'And to that end, you won't need my financial
support.'

'Well, I suppose not. But I'd like to have you on board,
so to speak.'

'I don't think so. Now, Aubrey, we have a matter to
attend to.'

Rokeby-Taylor took Sir Darius's arm. 'Before you go,
in the boardroom, you were about to offer me some
advice.'

'Of course. It's just this: don't ever approach me again
with anything that has the remotest hint of impropriety
about it.'

Rokeby-Taylor considered this, then brightened. 'Of
course not, Darius. Why would I? Now, I really must see
the governors. They should be around here somewhere.'

He rushed off, slipping through the crowd that had
once again populated the chamber, going about their
business as though nothing had happened. The buzz of
transactions, the scratching of pen on paper and the rustle
and clink of money melded into a sound that was the
hum of commerce.

'Will the Prime Minister be needing a room?' Sir
Norman appeared at Sir Darius's elbow, looking neat and
tidy, with no sign of having been a hostage in a bank
robbery drama only a few minutes ago. Aubrey thought
it a wonderful characteristic of the Albionite bank
manager, the ability to appear unfazed by events that
would necessitate most people having a good lie down.

'Of course, Sir Norman. I have another matter that
needs discharging. Please bring my deposit box.'

Sir Norman straightened, enthused. 'In an instant,
Prime Minister!' He cast around then pointed at one of
the uniformed doorman. 'Eames.'

'Nolan, sir.'

'Nolan. Please show the Prime Minister to the Vault
Room.'

The doorman ushered them briskly across the main
chamber to a staircase. He took them down three flights,
deep into the bowels of the bank, to a barred metal door
where two guards scrutinised all three of them before
using their keys in the lock.

Nolan took them along a narrow corridor. He
ignored the many side doors and went directly to the
door at the end.

He thumped on the solid, riveted steel and a small
peephole slid open. An eye studied him for a moment,
then the door was unlocked. 'I'll wait for you here, sirs,'
Nolan chirped. 'Collins will take care of you until Sir
Norman gets here.'

Apparently, this meant that they sat at a long mahogany
table while Collins – a huge guard with a missing ear –
watched them with a gaze laden with what Aubrey
decided was occupational hostility.

The table wasn't quite as large as the boardroom table,
but it would have seated a dozen large people with room
to spare. A vase of camellias sat on one end of the table
while a crystal water carafe and glasses rested on a silver
tray at the other end.

The Vault Room was a misnomer. The large room
actually had four massive steel doors leading to vaults.
It also had a singular feature. One corner of the Vault
Room was taken up by a large, irregular rock. In the
austere surroundings, its gnarled and rough surface was
spectacularly out of place. The walls were built around it,
fitting snugly, so that it looked as if it protruded from
outside.

The guard saw Aubrey's curious look. 'That's the Old
Man of Albion.'

'The rock?'

'Found it when they excavated the foundations. They
could have broken it up, but someone decided to leave it.
Part of the bank, it is.'

Sir Darius strolled across the room and inspected it,
smiling. 'It's not just any rock, is it, Collins?'

'No sir, that it isn't. It's part of the Bank of Albion. The
bank's built on it, to put it another way.'

'Every governor of the Bank of Albion must take his
oath while resting a hand on it,' Sir Darius said to Aubrey.
'And it's part of the Counting of the Coins.'

'That's right' Collins said. 'The King will be here in
two weeks' time. He has to bless the gold of the land, as
all the Kings and Queens have done, ever since ever.'
Collins pointed. 'See there, that worn spot? That's where
the King rests his foot while he blesses the coins and
bullion. Then they're fit to go into circulation.'

'One of our nation's quaintest, and oldest, ceremonies,'
Sir Darius said. 'Vitally important, of course.'

Aubrey wrinkled his brow. 'Sounds a bit silly to me.'

'In some ways, it is silly. In other ways, it's one of the
ties that bind us. The rituals, great and small, are markers,
items of familiarity that bring us together. Repeating
something that comes from our collective history reminds
us where we've come from, and who we are.'

Collins, the guard, looked at Sir Darius and nodded
slowly. 'That's it, sir, right enough. The bank wouldn't be
the bank without the Old Man of Albion, and the money
of Albion wouldn't be the same without the Counting of
the Coins. We all know it's old-fashioned, but it makes us
think a bit, now and then. That's a good thing.'

'You're a lucky man,' Sir Darius said, 'being this close
to part of Albion's heritage.'

'Same as you, sir, sitting in Parliament all day. Must be
dozens of bits of heritage just lying around there.'

Sir Darius blinked. 'I suppose you're right. I'd never
thought about that before.'

He laughed and Collins chuckled along with him.

Aubrey had seen it before, but the change in Collins
from hostility to respect was another example of why his
father was the leader he was. A few words, some honest
understanding of what motivated people, a lack of
pretension, and Sir Darius had gained another supporter.
Aubrey could hear Collins in the pub tonight: 'Say what
you like about the Prime Minister. I've met him, and he's
straight up. Doesn't talk down, and he's willing to listen.'

One of the many goals Aubrey had set himself was
to be as good a leader as his father. He couldn't do it in
the same way – he had a horror of being seen as a pale
imitation. He had to shape his own style. He just hadn't
quite worked out what that was.

Sir Norman arrived with the deposit box. It was grey
metal, the size of a small suitcase. The governor needed
both arms to carry it, but the box didn't seem to be
heavy. He placed it in front of Sir Darius and once
the ledger had been signed, he backed out of the room,
taking Collins and closing the door behind him.

Sir Darius drummed his fingers for a moment. Then
he found a key in his jacket. He unlocked the box and
took out a small, blue velvet bag. 'This belongs to you,
Aubrey. It's time for you to have it.'

Aubrey saw that the bag was worn at one corner, and
the drawstring a little frayed. He hesitated. 'Sir?'

'Take it.'

The bag was light, but lumpy. Carefully, Aubrey
loosened the string. He held out his palm and shook the
bag, very gently.

A deep red gemstone tumbled out and sat in his
hand. It was the size of his thumbnail. 'Thank you,'
Aubrey said, in his awe unable to summon anything
more profound.

'It's the Brayshire Ruby. A family heirloom.'

'But shouldn't it be yours?'

'It's a Leap Legacy. It skips a generation. Your grandfather
had it, now it's your turn.'

Aubrey stared at it while he tried to sort out a jumble
of emotions. Mostly, he was surprised. He'd been struggling
for his father's approval for so long that this tangible
sign took him completely unaware. He was humbled,
too, by the reality of his connection with the long history
of the family that was here in his hand. And, with typical
Aubrey perverseness, he was pricked by self-doubt. Did
he really deserve this?

The stone was pear-shaped. It sparkled with a fire that
came from deep within, a core of ruddy light. Aubrey
stroked it with the tip of his forefinger. It felt warm.

'What should I do with it?'

'That's the challenge. Your grandfather had it set in a
ring, but found it too clumsy to wear, except on special
occasions. Tradition says, however, you can't simply repeat
what the previous holder did.'

'I'm going to have it set in a watchcase,' Aubrey
said and he blinked. He hadn't consciously come to a
conclusion; it had simply popped into his head fully
formed. But having blurted it out, the notion seemed
perfect. He was conscious of time – having too little,
seeing it run away too fast, the pressing urgency of it.
Perhaps having a timepiece of his own could be a way
of taming it.

'A watch? Novel idea. I don't think that's been done
before.' Sir Darius looked pleased. 'We'll arrange for
Anderson and Sutch to send someone around. They're
excellent jewellers. You can explain what you want done.'

Sir Darius sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers.
He smiled.

'Was this some sort of test?' Aubrey asked.

'Only in the broadest possible sense. Each of our
family heirs must go through this.'

Aubrey folded his fist over the ruby. 'You didn't.'

'Oh, but I did. I had to take possession of the Brayshire
Sapphire.'

'Ah, the mysterious Brayshire Sapphire.' Aubrey had
never heard of the Brayshire Sapphire.

Sir Darius snorted. 'There's nothing mysterious about
it. It just made a dashed ugly cigarette case look even
more hideous. I don't know what I was thinking. I've
never smoked.'

Aubrey felt the gem in his hand. It was surprisingly
warm. 'Thank you, sir,' he repeated.

'It's yours, Aubrey, as it was your grandfather's. It's
something that's been handed down, generation after
generation. It reminds you of who you are.'

Aubrey's throat was tight. He swallowed. 'Sir. I'll do my
best to live up to the family name.'

'What?' Sir Darius regarded him with raised eyebrows.
'Why, you've done that already, Aubrey, a hundred times
over.'

A
UBREY HAD MUCH TO THINK ABOUT ON THE
journey back to Maidstone, but he forgot it all
when he saw the figure waiting for him at the front
door.

'George! All's well at home?'

George frowned a little, then gave a slight shrug.
Aubrey thought he looked tired. 'Father has an ulcer, the
doctor says, and that's a miracle in itself.'

'An ulcer is a miracle?'

'No, the fact that Father actually saw a doctor.'

Sir Darius shook George's hand. 'I'm sorry to hear
your father's unwell, George. Please send my regards.'

'I will, sir. He'll appreciate it.'

'And let me know if I can do anything.'

George made a face. 'Oh, sir, you know he won't have
any of that. The doctor says he must stop worrying, but
that's difficult right at the moment.'

Sir Darius laughed. 'Still the same stubborn William
Doyle.'

Harris, the butler, had been standing silently, but at
that moment he lifted his fist and coughed into it. This
discreet display was followed by an infinitesimal tilt of
his grey-haired head in the direction of a table next to
the front door. It was piled high with dispatch boxes.

Sir Darius caught Harris's gesture, followed it, studied
the tower of officialdom, and groaned. 'Aubrey. George.
If you'll excuse me. I have some catching-up to do.'

He took the top three boxes. Harris took the remainder.
Together, laden with the affairs of state, they started
up the stairs.

Sir Darius stopped halfway. Without turning, he said,
'Aubrey. If you're not seeing the jewellers today, make
sure you put the ruby in the safe.'

'Of course.' Aubrey fielded George's puzzlement
cleanly and knew something that might brighten his
friend's spirits. 'I'll tell you over lunch.'

A few hours later, with the afternoon fully mature
and the table a picture of devastation, George sat back
and picked crumbs from his chest. Aubrey thought his
friend had begun the meal in a distant, abstracted mood,
but he'd grown more interested as the story unfolded.
Hands laced on his chest, he nodded at Aubrey. 'Magic
suppressors, valuable family heirlooms, attempted bank
robberies and the reappearance of Mr Clive Rokeby-Taylor. Have I missed anything?'

'No, not really.'

'Right. In that case, it sounds to me that we both need
a last bit of relaxation, fun and frivolity, before we go up
to Greythorn.'

'You're not anticipating any fun and frivolity at the
university?'

'Not me, old man. Watch. Next week I'll have my head
down in those books, the model student.'

'That's something I'm looking forward to. I
always
look
forward to a miracle.'

George ignored him. 'But tonight, let's take in a show.'

Aubrey grimaced. He'd been thinking of how he
could see Caroline again. Without offending her. Again.
'Why would I want to do that?'

'I've asked Caroline along.'

'A show. Splendid idea, George. What time?'

'Y
OU'RE SURE SHE SAID SHE'D MEET US THERE
?'

The hansom cab ambled along the street toward the
theatre district. Aubrey wished that they'd taken some
more speedy form of transport. A lightning bolt, for
instance.

'No, not at all.'

'What?'

'She said she'd meet
me
there. I didn't tell her that you
were coming.'

'George, Caroline Hepworth isn't a fool. She'll at least
suspect that you've invited me as well.'

'She still agreed to come, didn't she? What does that
tell you?'

Aubrey stared at his friend without seeing him. His
thoughts whirled. Caroline had left for the Arctic with
the express purpose of not seeing him, the polar region
being a renowned Aubrey-free environment. And yet,
here she was back in Albion and after a few days she
was already trying to find a way to see him. Or, at least,
she wasn't going out of her way to avoid him, which was
a great improvement on her project of putting thousands
of miles of icecap between her and him.

'Don't jump to conclusions,' George advised. Then he
slapped his forehead. 'What am I saying? You've probably
leapfrogged a few dozen conclusions while you've been
sitting there.'

'Perhaps,' Aubrey allowed.

'Well, don't. Sit back. Relax. Think about how you're
not going to make a fool of yourself when you see her.'

'Believe me, George, I'm
always
thinking that.'

The theatre district was one of Aubrey's favourite parts
of the city. While no part of Trinovant lacked life, the
theatre district had cultivated its own special variety of it.
Not only did the swells mix with the common folk,
it appealed to Aubrey because it brought together art,
magic and technology to create something wonderful –
usually six evening shows a week with a matinee on
Sunday. The theatre was tradition, it was story made
grand, it was low farce, it was a place to find just about
every expression of humanity. He loved it.

They rolled down the hill of Eastheath Street, past the
Royal Theatre and the many-pillared mock classical
frontage of Miller's Showcase. The streets had grown
crowded and the cabby had to argue his way through
the pedestrians who spilled out onto the street, waves of
them promenading from theatre to theatre in search of a
good night out.

They turned the corner into Harkness Street, the main
theatre row. Proudly taking up the corner was the
Orient, which – to Aubrey's eye – had never looked the
slightest bit oriental. The cabby saw a gap in the traffic
and urged his horse forward, just as Aubrey's gaze lit on
the colourful playbill outside the theatre.

He felt as if he'd been hit on the back of the head with
an electric eel.

The face of Dr Mordecai Tremaine filled the playbill.

Of all the faces, the ex-Sorcerer Royal's was the last
he'd expect to see on a poster advertising a light opera.
The man who had plotted to kill the King, who had
kidnapped Sir Darius, who had orchestrated the theft of
Gallia's sacred Heart of Gold, all in order to plunge the
world into war. He'd haunted Aubrey's thoughts ever
since he'd disappeared from Albion.

Dr Tremaine was the greatest magician in the world.
His knowledge and his bravado had led him to master
arcane areas of magic that others wouldn't dare to
contemplate. He achieved the difficult with casual arrogance.
Hardly paying attention, he juggled spells that
would drive others to distraction.

Aubrey knew that Dr Tremaine was one of Albion's
greatest threats.
So why is he on a theatre poster
? he
wondered.

He shook himself and twisted in his seat to see more,
but a tall woman in a hat the size of an airship chose that
moment to pause in front of the Orient and laugh at her
companion's witticism. He grabbed George's arm. 'Did
you see that?'

'I certainly did. Dreadful hat, that. Fruit
and
feathers?
Appalling.'

Aubrey hissed with impatience. He hammered on the
ceiling of the cab. 'Cabby! Cabby!'

The small hatch opened. The driver's eyes flicked
downward for an instant, then flicked back to the
swirling street ahead. 'What is it, young sir?'

'Stop here! Now!'
The driver grimaced. A ten-pound fare was vanishing
in front of him, and he knew it. 'Here, sir? Can't, just yet.
Hold on a mo . . .'

George leaned forward. 'Don't worry about it, driver.
We have to be at the Russell by eight.'

'Eight? We'll have to get a move on, then.'He snapped
a whip that looked more decorative than functional, but
the cab lurched forward.

'I'll get out,' Aubrey said. He put his hand on the latch.

'You'll miss Caroline,' George said.

Aubrey froze, then let his hand drop. He sat back in his
seat and noticed that his knees were trembling. 'At the
Orient. The poster. It was Dr Tremaine.'

'Dr Tremaine?' George's eyebrows rose. 'Is that what
this is about? I saw the poster at the Orient. That was for
Arturo Spinetti, the singer.'

'Spinetti? Singer?'

'He's the talk of the town, come over from Venezia.'
George crossed his arms on his chest and looked satisfied.

'You see, Aubrey, there are other sections of the newspaper
apart from the politics section.'

'So it wasn't Dr Tremaine.'

George frowned. 'What a bizarre notion. Spinetti
doesn't look anything like Tremaine. You know he's
probably still in Holmland, constructing plots and generally
making mischief. And even if he wasn't, he wouldn't
plaster his face about on a poster.'

Aubrey wasn't convinced, and he had a feeling that
something was afoot here. The man he'd seen on the
poster was a twin of Dr Tremaine. 'Of course.' His
headache was sneaking back and he rubbed his temples
wearily.

Aubrey tried to tell himself that he'd made a mistake,
that was all, half-glimpsing a poster and linking it with
the man who lurked in his thoughts.

He subsided, but doubt niggled at him. Dr Tremaine
was brilliant, charismatic and utterly ruthless, but he was
– above all – unpredictable. Not in the sense of being
capricious or careless, but in the way that his motives
were impossible for others to decipher. The fate of
nations worried him little – his own purposes were paramount.
In this world of international turmoil, he was a
wild card.

Aubrey knew that Dr Tremaine was an enemy to
Albion. But Aubrey was also honest enough to admit –
to himself – that he had some admiration for the man.
His passionate, sweeping nature, his many personal
accomplishments, the gusto and swagger, as if Tremaine
were a bolder, grander, more intense version of humanity.

Aubrey could see how Dr Tremaine gathered followers
wherever he went. Not that he cared for them,
but they were devoted to him. He was a leader, but
a completely different sort of leader from Darius
Fitzwilliam.

George thumped on the roof of the cab. 'That's the
Russell just ahead, cabby.'

'Right you are, sir,' the cabby said with resignation.
Aubrey reflected that it was part of a cabby's lot to be told
things they already knew, but when they needed accurate
directions to be confronted with total ignorance.

'What is this show we're seeing, George?'

'The Great Manfred. Sleight-of-hand artist.'

'A Holmlander?' Aubrey said with some astonishment.

'We're not at war yet. The Great Manfred's been on
tour for over a year, the toast of the Continent.'

'I hate sleight of hand,' Aubrey grumbled. 'All their
tricks are just done with magic, you know.'

The cab rolled to a halt. George bounded out. 'Ah,
that's where you're wrong,' he said when Aubrey joined
him on the crowded pavement. He paid the cabby, who
favoured him with a grin before driving off. 'The Great
Manfred gives a guarantee that every trick he performs is
the result of sheer physical dexterity.'

'Impossible.'

'That's the fun of it. He does the impossible, right
before your eyes, without any magic at all.'

'If this Manfred –'

'The
Great
Manfred.'

'If this Great Manfred does all that, I'll be impressed.'

The doors to the theatre were open and a crowd was
trying to press through them all at once. 'Wait here,'
George said. 'I'll pick up the tickets.'

Aubrey scowled. He stood on the pavement, hands in
the pockets of his jacket, and studied the poster, trying
not to think about Dr Tremaine.

The Great Manfred was a model Holmlander – tall,
well groomed, neat pointed beard, impeccable posture.
He wore a dinner jacket that had a decided shortcoming
in that cards, doves and coloured scarves seemed to be
exploding from its sleeves. Aubrey thought that this
would be uncomfortable at best, and markedly inconvenient
at worst, but it was what the illustration promised.

'Aubrey. You'll stretch your jacket out of shape like
that.'

Aubrey straightened, guiltily, and whipped his hands
out of his pockets. 'Hello, Caroline,' he said and all his
rehearsed lines vanished from his mind. 'Hello, Caroline,'
he repeated.

She stood there, cool and elegant, in the middle of the
pavement. Pedestrians swirled around her as if she were
an island in a raging torrent.

'I didn't think you'd be interested in sleight of hand,
even when the artist is of the calibre of Manfred.'

'The
Great
Manfred,' Aubrey said.

Caroline studied him for a moment. Her face was
thoughtful, but distant. His hopes of an immediate
rapprochement shrivelled the longer the pause went on.
'You always did like correcting people,' she said eventually.
'Still, when you're right all of the time, it must
be tempting.'

Bad start
, Aubrey thought.
I've made a very bad start
. He
considered his options and quickly abandoned thoughts
of running away, fainting or claiming that he was, in fact,
his own evil twin. 'Sorry,' he said, instead.