Word of Honour (8 page)

Caroline smiled and Aubrey took it like a hard blow
to the chest. He was astonished that he didn't actually
stagger back a few steps. 'Good,' she said. 'That's an
improvement, anyway.'

'Improvement?'

'How quickly you were able to say sorry. When I first
met you, it didn't seem to be in your vocabulary.'

'I'm aware of my shortcomings.'

'Another improvement.'

'In fact, it's hard to see past them, sometimes.'

'Oh dear. Now you're starting to sound maudlin. And
that's a step backward.'

'Hmm. What about melancholic?'

'No. That sounds like someone who'd loll about under
a tree and write bad poetry.'

'Brooding?'

'Ugh. If you're brooding, you belong in a chicken
house.'

'Good point. Would you settle for genuinely apologetic
and embarrassed for treating you so badly in
Lutetia?'

'Boorish, insensitive, manipulative?'

'All that.'

'Scheming, big-headed, arrogant?'

'Yes, yes.'

She studied him. Her eyes were very dark blue and
there was no-one else in the entire city. 'I can go on.'

And I'd be quite happy if you did
. 'I'm sure you can.'

'I don't want to, not really.' She looked away. 'Do you
know that I can't banter with anyone else like this?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'They can't keep up. Or they get confused. Or
offended.'

He shrugged. 'Words. The better one can juggle them,
the better off one is.'

'I agree. And I enjoy the sparring with you.'

'Ah.'

'That's why I don't think I can have anything to do
with you.'

Aubrey actually looked over his shoulder. 'Are you
talking to me?'

'Of course.'

'I'm sorry. I thought I was keeping up well, but that last
conversational leap was a jump too far.'

'What do you mean?'

'You were saying how much you enjoyed being
with me.'

'Talking to you.'

'Which usually entails being in proximity.'

She frowned, then nodded. 'Granted.'

'Which, to my mind, was sounding promising. And
then you popped me on the jaw with "I can't have
anything to do with you".' Aubrey put his hands behind
his back and rocked on his heels for a few seconds.

Caroline looked at the sky. 'Why do I feel a sports
metaphor coming on?'

'I shan't disappoint you.' He cleared his throat. 'Cricket.
It's like being bowled up a series of delightful long hops
and then, when you're quite expecting another, getting a
searing bumper that takes your head off.'

'There. Feel better now that's out of your system?'

'Much. Thanks.'

Caroline smiled, then frowned, then settled for something
in between that made Aubrey's heart ache. 'Do you
see what I mean?' she said.

'About not seeing each other? No.'

'About having fun.' She put her hands together. 'But
the reality is that I have other things to do in my life. Fun
can wait.'

'No. Life should be fun. Life is fun.'
Even when you're
balanced halfway between life and death?
'Surely there is more to life than fun. Mindless fun.'

'Not mindless fun. Intelligent fun. Thoughtful fun.
Complex, thrilling, challenging fun.'

'It sounds to me as if you're addicted to stimulus.'

Aubrey blinked. 'I suppose so. The notion had never
occurred to me.' He considered it for a moment. 'There
are worse flaws in a human being.'

'Do you know how many human failings can be
excused that way? As long as a wicked person can find
someone more wicked, he can wave his deeds away by
saying, "Well, there are worse. "'
Aubrey put his hands together and studied them for a
time. They fitted neatly and they'd stopped trembling.
'How did we get here? Talking about the nature of good
and evil?'

'We could trace back our conversational steps, if you
like, but that's looking backward.'

Aubrey rubbed his chin. Where was George? 'No
chaperone tonight?'

Caroline made a face. She obviously intended it to be
a grimace, but Aubrey found it delightful. 'Chaperone?
Please, Aubrey. We live in modern times, not the
dark ages. Why should a young woman need an escort?
To watch over me like a sheepdog? What an antiquated
custom.'

'Of course. Ridiculous.'

'In fact, we have a speaker at the next meeting of the
Eastside Suffragists on this very topic. Would you care
to come?'

'Naturally,' he said automatically, as he generally did
whenever Caroline requested anything. 'Perhaps we could
have dinner afterwards. Or a stroll. Something.'

She frowned. 'It's a serious political meeting, Aubrey,
not a rendezvous. I thought you took the cause seriously.'

'I do. I have. I shall.'
George
, Aubrey thought,
now would
be a good time to appear.
He stood on tiptoes and looked
through the doors of the theatre, over the heads of the
people crammed into the foyer. Cigar smoke made it
difficult to see, and Aubrey knew his jacket would need
a good airing when he got home.

'You're looking for George?' Caroline asked.

'He's getting the tickets.'
And he's taking his time about it.

'Really? I thought he'd come along with the sole
purpose of chatting to that girl over there.'

Aubrey swivelled. Not far away, George was talking to
a young blonde woman. She wore long gloves and she
held a handbag so tiny that Aubrey couldn't imagine it
had any use apart from providing a home for a pair of
dormice.

'He's been there for some time,' Caroline said. 'And
he's making sure he speaks to her mother, too.'

'That's Jane Evans. Not the mother. That's Mrs Evans.
Her husband, Jane's father, is Justice Evans, the judge.'

'You know them?'

'Justice Evans is a friend of my father.' Aubrey paused.
'A proper friend, not a political friend. They knew each
other in the army.'

George was nodding at something Mrs Evans had said,
but Aubrey could see that it was taking him some effort
to stop himself orienting on Jane. It was as if a compass
point was trying to stop centring on north.

Aubrey waved. Despite George's focus, he caught the
gesture. With some reluctance, he made his apologies to
the Evanses and eased his way through the crowd.

'Hello, Caroline,' he said. 'Nice hat.' He rubbed his
hands together. 'Cracking girl, that Jane. Dab hand at
croquet.'

'You hate croquet,' Aubrey said. 'You always call it the
lazy man's hockey.'

'I may have been hasty in that judgement. Time to
reconsider.'

'You have the tickets?'

George looked blank for a moment, then brightened.
'Of course. Good seats, I think.' He plucked them from
the inner pocket of his jacket, just as the doors opened to
the auditorium.

Aubrey was decidedly ambivalent about sleight of
hand. When younger, he'd desperately wanted it to be
true. He wanted such deftness to be real instead of simple
magic masquerading as prestidigitation. What a world it
would be, if a person could make a ball vanish into thin
air, just by clever manipulation and misdirection.

But with every sleight-of-hand artist he'd ever seen,
the illusion didn't last. He soon saw the spells that were
used to make scarves dwindle and disappear, or doves
reconstitute themselves inside top hats, or pretty assistants
hover in thin air, which was a great disappointment.

He settled in his seat, willing to be deceived but
knowing he wouldn't be. The critical part of his brain
never slept. It was always ready to squint, mutter and prod
him into asking why, or how, or what.

The curtain was down. A four-piece string ensemble
played in the pit – something Holmlandish, Aubrey
thought, but thankfully it was something danceable
rather than one of their galumphingly serious compositions.

Caroline had chosen to sit between George and him,
and immediately Aubrey had the Great Armrest Issue to
contend with.

In purely economic terms, he knew half the armrest
was his. His ticket entitled him to it. In personal terms
that could be a good thing. If he took half the armrest,
and Caroline took half, his forearm – and elbow – would
be close. An altogether satisfactory arrangement from his
point of view as it could lead to an accidental touch or
two, when he shifted position – which would be only
natural.

But what if she wanted more armrest space? The
courteous thing would be to concede the entire plush
territory to her, for her comfort. Then he could miss out
on the nearness.

The possibilities made his head spin.

In the end, he sat back, crossed his arms on his chest,
and settled for simply enjoying the beguiling scent of her
perfume. He made a note to himself to research perfume,
so he could speak with some knowledge about it instead
of the total ignorance he currently had. He imagined
himself greeting her with a 'Lovely scent.
Madeleine
,
isn't it? I do enjoy the floral topnotes balanced with the
myrrh-like warmth.'

He settled back with a smile.

The quartet brought its playing to a conclusion. Lights
dimmed and the curtains hissed back. A small square
table stood alone. At the four corners of the stage stood
tripods, each surmounted by featureless, black metal
boxes. Aubrey's eyes opened wide, his professional interest
suddenly piqued.

The boxes looked like magic suppressors.

The Great Manfred strode onto the stage to the
applause of the audience. His face was grave and he did not
acknowledge the plaudits. His attention was on the table.

He went and stood next to it, frowning, as if
troubled. He tilted his head and, keeping the table
firmly in his gaze, walked right around it. Then, with a
flourish, he shook his right hand in the air above its
surface. To his evident surprise, a small red ball appeared
in his fingers.

Aubrey blinked. It was a simple thing to do. Any young
magician learned how to materialise small objects
through applying the Law of Displacement. Moving a
small ball from a pocket to a hand situated hardly any
distance away? Routine.

Except he'd felt no hint of magic at all.

The Great Manfred stared at the red ball, then at the
table. He bent and put his left hand under the table.
With a quick, precise movement, he slammed his other
hand onto its surface, crushing the ball beneath his
palm.

Or had he? Aubrey watched as the Great Manfred
withdrew his left hand. It now had the ball in it, the ball
that had apparently passed straight through the solid
surface of the table.

Applause, but muted, as if the audience wasn't quite
sure what it was seeing.

'Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,' the Great Manfred
said, with a slight, Holmlandish bow. 'You are sceptical,
which is quite correct. Magic, you are thinking. It's all
done with magic.'

No it's not
, Aubrey thought.
What on earth is going on
here?

The Great Manfred looked to the wings. 'Let me
introduce a special guest. Professor Magnus Bromhead.'

Aubrey stiffened. He'd never have expected to find the
author of
Magical Rigour: Experimental Procedures Delineated
on the stage. It was as unexpected as bumping into an
elephant in a bookshop.

The applause was polite and puzzled this time rather
than sceptical. It also seemed to puzzle the grey-haired,
gown-wearing don who joined the sleight-of-hand artist.
He shielded his eyes from the footlights.

'Professor Bromhead,' the Great Manfred said. 'You are
an expert on magic, are you not?'

'I've held the Trismegistus chair of magic at the
University of Greythorn for twenty years. That's why you
hired me.'

'Exactly. So you should be able to identify the devices
on these tripods?'

Professor Bromhead adjusted his glasses. He harrumphed,
then moved closer to the nearest tripod. 'Magic
suppressors. Where'd you get 'em?'

The Great Manfred ignored the question. 'In the field
generated by these devices, can any magic exist?'

'None.'

'Are you sure?'

'One way to find out. Stand back.'

The professor eyed the tripods, then moved to the very
front of the stage, almost toppling into the orchestra pit.
He spread his legs a little, settling his stance. Then he
placed his hands together at chest height.

It was a simple light spell and Aubrey nodded in
approval at the crispness of the professor's enunciation.
The spell was a well-practised one, to judge by the way
it rolled off his tongue. Aubrey felt the smooth build-up
of magic before the professor drew back his hands and a
small ball of light hovered between them.

Nervous applause tripped through the auditorium, but
the professor looked up sharply. 'Watch,' he said.

Slowly, he walked backward, keeping the ball of light
hovering between his hands. One step, then two, and the
professor moved into the area bounded by the tripods.
Aubrey felt a surge of magic, and immediately, the ball of
light winked out.

Professor Bromhead dropped his hands. 'See? As soon
as I stepped into this region of the stage, my magic
failed, nullified by these devices. It's a sharply delineated
area, determined by the placement of the boxes. Magic
suppression works.'

The Great Manfred nodded. 'So you would guarantee
that I can use no magic while on this stage?'

'I will. And better than that. I'll sit off in the wings and
monitor for magic use each night of your show. If there's
even a sniff, I'll feel it and raise a hue and cry.'

'Professor, I thank you.'

Aubrey applauded heartily as the professor left the
stage. If Professor Bromhead was prepared to give his
word on the truthfulness of the performance, it was good
enough for him.

After that, the Great Manfred proceeded to amaze.

Aubrey was at first interested, then impressed and
finally astounded. Rings linked and unlinked, ropes of
colourful scarves came from nowhere, and endless
numbers of eggs came from the Great Manfred's mouth.