Authors: Michael Pryor
T
HE MORNING ANNOUNCED ITSELF WITH A KNOCK AT
Aubrey's door. He sat up in the dark, rubbing his
eyes and groping for the electrical light cord, just in time
for George to burst in.
He was wearing a grey tweed outfit and stout boots.
Leather gloves hung from the pocket of his Norfolk
jacket. The whole ensemble looked as if it was well
broken in, with genuine-looking stains and frayings that
couldn't have been bought in any shop.
Aubrey stared at George through bleary eyes. Despite
how much he enjoyed the experience, the journey to
Penhurst and the stimulating surroundings had been an unexpected
strain. This meant he was less able to resist the
call of the true death. Alone in his room, he had felt the
pain which signalled his soul was on the verge of separating
from his body, succumbing to the ceaseless pull of the
unknown. He had not slept very well, as his condition
continued to deteriorate, no matter how much he tried
to resist. Eventually, he was forced to use one of the spells
he'd found, a counter-intuitive application of a minor
aspect of the Law of Adherence. He was extremely careful
to pronounce the elements with his best Chaldean
intonation. For some time he was unsure whether it had
taken effect, as the tugging on his soul continued, but
gradually, as the night wore on, the sensation eased. His
body and his soul settled. He slept. The last thing he
wanted was for his control to fail while he was asleep.
'I thought I'd locked that door,' Aubrey mumbled.
'No.' George beamed. Aubrey thought he looked
disgustingly healthy and rested. 'Hurry up. The shooting
party's about to leave.'
'What about breakfast?'
'No thanks, I've already had it. Get dressed. I'll meet
you downstairs.'
George slammed the door behind him. Aubrey
winced.
It took him some time to get out of bed. His muscles
complained and every movement was an effort. Getting
dressed was another trial. He opened the wardrobe where
the footman had neatly stowed his clothes. He glared at
the racks of tweed his grandmother had packed. He felt
sorry for the dozens of sheep who had gone cold to make
the jackets, trousers, hats and unnameable oddments in
front of him.
By the time he was dressed, Aubrey was beginning
to feel better. He trotted down the stairs, whisking a slice
of toast and marmalade from the tray of a startled maid.
George leaped from a red leather chesterfield and
bounded to the door. Aubrey followed, trying not to
glower.
In the grey light of early morning they assembled at
the rear of the Big House, near a large greenhouse that
was misted so heavily that all Aubrey could see was a few
palm fronds pressed close to the glass. He counted forty-three
in the shooting group, both men and women.
There were three times that many attendants, carrying
guns, food hampers, spare boots and all manner of other
things to make the time comfortable. The morning was
crisp and Aubrey was grateful for his gloves, but the sky
was clear and promised a sunny day ahead.
At that moment, Aubrey realised he hadn't rehearsed
his aiming spell. His hand went to the inner pocket of his
jacket, searching for the scrap of paper where he'd
written down the spell, but came back empty.
How good was his memory? The awkward syllables
came to mind, and he felt confident that he had all the
elements in the correct order. A lingering doubt, however,
hovered. The language of magic was like trying to make a
pet of a wild animal – it was never fully tamed and always
liable to turn on its master. Even familiar, well-worn spells
sometimes twisted on the tongue and went awry. With this
spell, he had to make sure that its parameters were clearly
limited to the lead shot he'd be using. He didn't want
other objects suddenly flying in unexpected directions.
Aubrey repeated the spell in his mind again, then once
more, until he felt assured.
George nudged him. 'Fine bunch, wouldn't you say?'
Aubrey looked around. The kennel master was a thin,
wiry chap. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, a leather vest
and a dull bowler hat. He had three boys helping him.
They were marshalling a dozen or so retrievers, all of
which were glossy-coated, bright-eyed and eager to be
off, straining at their leads and testing the resolve of the
dog boys. The dogs whined, but didn't yelp. Aubrey
approved of their good training.
Prince Albert emerged from the house, accompanied
by Sir William. The equerry puffed steam through his
grey whiskers as he surveyed the scene. He nodded to the
Prince, the kennel master, and the stocky man Aubrey
had noticed the day before at the site of his experiment
with the falling branch. He decided that this was the man
in charge of the Special Services squad.
Prince Albert tugged on a pair of fine leather gloves.
He was dressed in brown tweed, but his hat had a jaunty
red feather in it.
'The Prince doesn't look keen,' George said to Aubrey.
It was the sort of thing Aubrey had grown used to
George noticing. A thousand people would have looked
at the Prince and commented on how interested he
looked. George had glanced at him and known differently.
'Why do you say that?' Aubrey asked him.
George shrugged. 'Little things. I don't know. Clasping
his hands behind his back?'
'He could be cold.'
'So you think he's eager for some sport?'
'No. I'm sure he'd rather be in the library.'
George snorted. 'I thought so.' He pointed. 'Look.
There's Miss Hepworth.'
She was with her father. Aubrey hazarded a guess that
she was wearing a skirt and jacket combination suit sort
of thing, in a pale grey. Her hat was small, with a high
peak. Aubrey thought she looked fresh and alive, unlike
some of the more jaded people around him, but her face
was as solemn as the Prince's.
Her father was dressed in a baggy suit that looked as if
he'd slept in it. He leaned on a walking stick and gazed at
the throng, his forehead furrowed. He, too, looked like a
man who wished he were somewhere else.
'I wonder if she'd like company,' Aubrey said. 'She looks
a little lonely.'
'That Holmlander fellow seems to have the same idea.
Nice moustache.'
Aubrey grimaced. 'Hugo von Stralick. The fellow next
to me at dinner pointed him out. Couldn't stop talking
about him. He's the junior attaché for cultural affairs at
the Holmland Embassy.'
'Impressive title.'
'He's a spy, George.'
'What?' George stared until Aubrey nudged him.
'Junior diplomatic staff are always spies. It's well known.
They meet people, look around and send lots of reports
back to their own country.'
'But shouldn't the police do something about him? Or
the Special Services?'
Aubrey shrugged. 'They're generally harmless and we
know all about them. The dangerous spies are the ones
we
don't
know about.'
'He should be deported.'
'Why? He's considered to be good company. He tells
reasonable jokes, he plays excellent billiards and he enjoys
watching cricket. Besides, he'll be back in Holmland in
a year or two, having sampled the delights we have to
offer here. We'll have a friend over there for life.'
A beefy man with a spectacularly red face strode around
the corner. He caught the eye of one of the Prince's
assistants and soon he was talking with the Prince himself,
with Sir William in close attendance. From the mud on
his boots and the direction he was pointing, Aubrey
guessed he was the head gamekeeper.
The beefy man beamed, clapped his hands together
and clumped off. The kennel master followed, with his
dog boys and retrievers, and gradually the whole party
fell in behind them. Aubrey looked for the Special
Services commander and saw him at the rear of the party,
with a dozen of the fit young men, while others of this
type scattered themselves throughout the group. Aubrey
nodded at this, noting the careful way they took up
position near both the Prince and the Holmland Ambassador.
Their eyes were constantly moving, watching
members of the party as they milled around, and also
peering into the distance, at hedgerows and the trees that
surrounded the fields they soon found themselves in.
Aubrey looked at the sky. It was growing lighter as
morning unfolded itself and he felt it was time for
decisive action. He left George to his own devices, then,
by carefully adjusting his pace and moving sideways
through the crowd, he managed to bring himself close to
Professor Hepworth and his daughter. It was a skilful
manoeuvre, and he was quite proud of how accidental he
made it look.
'Professor Hepworth!' he said as he came alongside. 'I
didn't get a chance to speak to you last night.' Aubrey
tipped his hat to the professor's daughter. 'Miss
Hepworth.' She nodded, but her expression did not
change. Aubrey had hoped for a more promising
reaction, but he knew he was now committed.
'Eh?' said Professor Hepworth. He turned, almost
tripping on his walking stick. 'Ah, it's Fitzwilliam's son,
isn't it?'
'That's right, sir. My father sends his best wishes.' While
this may not have been strictly true, Aubrey felt he would
be forgiven for the white lie. Sir Darius was an admirer
of Professor Hepworth's work in highly esoteric magical
theory. Aubrey had heard him insist that people like
Professor Hepworth should be supported, for the good of
the country.
Aubrey was familiar with Professor Hepworth's name
through his Advanced Magic class at Stonelea. It was
often mentioned in conjunction with significant breakthroughs
in magical theory, either alone or with other
great thinkers. Unlike most of the brilliant men of his
kind, Professor Hepworth roamed across disciplines.
Aubrey had come across his name in areas as diverse as
the Mental Domination Conjecture, Colour Transference
and Transient Bodily Shaping. No-one else had made
such a range of discoveries or advanced understanding in
so many different areas.
The professor's frown relaxed for a moment. 'Ah, Sir
Darius. He was a rare one, Caroline. A politician who
listened to experts, but didn't let them get away with
balderdash. Asked damned good questions, he did.
Brooked no nonsense.' He shook himself and blinked.
'You've met my daughter, have you, Fitzwilliam?
Caroline?'
'She met us at the train. Lovely morning, isn't it, Miss
Hepworth?'
'It's too fine to waste on foolishness like magical hunts.'
Aubrey almost smiled. A young woman of forceful
opinions was Miss Hepworth. Aubrey was pleased that
the forceful opinion agreed with his own. And yet, as his
father's representative, he couldn't agree outright with
her, not in public . . . Shooting was much too popular
for that.
A hubbub went up. 'Reached a fence,' Professor
Hepworth said, craning his neck. 'This should be chaotic.'
The head gamekeeper and squads of footmen were
directing the party to a stile some fifty yards away.
As they ambled towards it, Aubrey went on. 'Professor
Hepworth, have you made any progress with your work
on Uncertainty Theory?'
Professor Hepworth glanced sidelong at Aubrey. 'No.'
'Fascinating area of endeavour, I would have thought,'
Aubrey continued. 'The possibilities – inducing effects at
a distance, reversing cause and effect. It could have a great
impact.'
'I'm not working on Uncertainty Theory any more,'
Professor Hepworth jabbed at the ground with his
walking stick. 'It was a dead end.'
Before Aubrey could tease out this intriguing hint, it
was their turn to mount the stile.
Although it was only four steps high, footmen were
struggling to help portly figures – both men and women –
up and over. The simple fence crossing was fast becoming
the equivalent of the journey over the mighty Tanskadi
Ranges, complete with near disaster at every turn.
Professor Hepworth ignored the offers of help and
mounted the stile as if it were a staircase. Aubrey stood
back and held out a hand. 'Miss Hepworth?'
She looked at him, then at his hand, then at the stile.
'Thank you,' she said, then lifted her skirt a little and
climbed the stile easily.
Aubrey was left there holding out his unused hand. He
felt the flush rise to his cheeks, but he was impressed
despite it.
Remarkable young woman
, he thought.
On the other side of the fence, the countryside was
altogether more wild. As Aubrey gazed out over the rolling
expanse of grass, bushes and scrubby growth, he
could see they'd left behind the sculpted world of the
gardens. This was a large expanse of heath, dotted with
hummocks and bushes, small stands of thorn trees, with
some marshy areas away to the north.
With a practised eye, Aubrey looked for traces of magic
and was pleased to see only a few. Whoever had been
hired for the job were professionals. Sir William would
only hire the best for the Prince, and the best were almost
always the most discreet. The quarry had been
summoned, let loose and limited to the bounds of the
estate, all ready for the guests.
They reached the shooting ground, a windswept area
with tall forest on three sides, a mixture of oak and beech,
old trees, survivors of an ancient, vaster forest. Tents had
been set up, some distance away from the butts, for those
who weren't actively partaking in the shooting. A steady
stream of wagons was arriving at the tents, disgorging
hampers, trestle tables, crockery, crates of wine and other
necessities for an outing in the country.
Nothing like getting away from the creature comforts
, Aubrey
thought.
A smaller tent was near the bustle of activity, and it was
altogether more businesslike. People – mostly men – were
making their way towards it. Aubrey excused himself
from Professor Hepworth and his daughter.