Authors: Michael Pryor
The second man who emerged from the motorcar was
not smiling, even when Sir Rollo – apparently – repeated
the joke.
It was Craddock.
He stood there next to the Prime Minister wearing his
customary black suit and wide-brimmed black hat. Tall,
spare, he stood with his hands behind his back, his gaze
on the ash trees in the front garden. He stood remarkably
still, as if he were balanced so perfectly that he could not
be moved by earthly forces.
Aubrey wondered how a man could become feared.
Was it by committing fearful deeds? Or was it by
ordering others to do fearful deeds? Reputation may be
enough, he decided, and he knew he didn't want to put
this theory to the test.
Two more men alighted from the motorcar, the driver
saluting them both. One was beautifully dressed in a
grey suit and gloves, his homburg a grey of such an
understated nature that it caressed the eye. He carried a
brass-topped cane and his shoes shone in the sunlight.
'Phillips-Dodd,' Aubrey said, when he saw George
frowning. 'The Home Secretary. In charge of the police,
among other things. Loves his racehorses and the theatre
and keeps his tailor very, very wealthy.'
'And who's the old fellow?' George pointed at the final
member of the visiting party, an old man with a pointed
beard. He looked about impatiently as the driver shut the
door of the motorcar.
'Come now. Use your powers of observation.'
'Upright stance. Wearing boots. His hand is on his belt,
feeling for something that isn't there. A sword?' George
looked at Aubrey. 'He was a soldier?'
'Very good, George. He was General Arthur
Codlington. Now he's the Minister for Defence.'
'I'd love to be a fly on the wall in that meeting,' George
murmured.
Aubrey grinned. 'George, you know I hate to disappoint
you.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'This way.'
Aubrey went to the long, glass-topped table. He
dragged over a three-legged stool and motioned for
George to do the same. 'I'll let you in on a secret,' he said
and he wiped the tabletop with his sleeve. 'I've been in a
few scrapes over the years.'
'That's no secret.'
Aubrey ignored this. 'Mother and Father always used
the library to discuss what to do with me. Naturally,
I didn't like to be left out of such talks.'
He placed the palm of his hand against the glass and
muttered a few words. The tabletop clouded and suddenly
it was like looking through a window onto a foggy
day. Aubrey leaned over; the tabletop cleared and the fog
was replaced by a bird's-eye view of a table, with five men
gathered around it.
'My eye into the library,' Aubrey said. 'A novel variation
on the Law of Transference, paying particular attention
to the area of effect of the spell. It's very tightly contained
so as not to draw any attention.' He tapped his chin.
Some of the elements he'd used to shield the fly from
magical detection were of his own devising; he'd never
seen them used elsewhere. He wondered if the shielding
aspect could be used to assist his condition.
'I say, old man, isn't this spying?' George looked
troubled. 'It's the Prime Minister, Aubrey. It's not finding
out what your Christmas presents are.'
'George, there's something going on here. I'm
involved. My father is involved. I won't sit around and be
a spectator. If I wish to do anything, I must know what's
going on.' He shrugged. 'It's a fine line between spying
and intelligence-gathering.'
He tapped the tabletop with a finger. Voices swam
up through the glass and Aubrey studied the scene.
One man at the table was still wearing his wide-brimmed
black hat. Craddock. The Home Secretary and
the Minister for Defence were sitting opposite each
other. The Prime Minister's bald head and cigar were
unmistakable. Aubrey's father was sitting upright,
opposite the PM. His hands were clasped on the table in
front of him.
'You have our every confidence,' the Prime Minister
said in his fruity voice. It was the voice he used in public
meetings and in Parliament. Aubrey had never warmed to
it. It sounded too much like an actor from one of the less
successful repertory companies.
The Prime Minister, before he entered Parliament, had
been a very prosperous scrap metal merchant. His business
background had made him perfect for the Royalist
Party, with its belief that healthy businesses meant a
healthy country and that anything that helped business
was good.
He was widely admired as a self-made man. He was
friends with the rich and powerful throughout the length
and breadth of the land, but he was notorious as a hard
customer, one who never forgot a slight and never failed
to exact his revenge for it. His roly-poly exterior had
led many people to underestimate him. All of them
regretted it.
'Every confidence, Fitzwilliam,' the Prime Minister
repeated. He waved his cigar at Sir Darius. 'Of course we
don't believe the nonsense in those pamphlets. You? A
Holmland sympathiser? Someone's obviously setting out
to traduce you and to blame the Holmlanders at the same
time. One of those agitator groups like the People's
League or the Army of New Albion, most likely. They
produce enough pamphlets to wallpaper the Palace!'
Sir Darius did not sound reassured. 'It would suit the
Royalist Party if I were discredited.'
'Of course, dear boy, of course. But not like this!
Shabby stuff, all round. Bad form.'
'So you'd be willing to denounce the pamphlet and its
writers?'
The Prime Minister tilted his head and studied the
cigar in his hand. He rolled it between his fingers and
Aubrey could see that it was unlit. He lifted his head. 'If
that's what you want, Fitzwilliam, I'd be happy to do it.
Talk to the press, set the record straight, that sort of thing.
Let everyone know that you're not a traitor.'
'I can hear it already,' Sir Darius said. He didn't sound
as if he relished the prospect. 'I'll consider your offer.'
The Home Secretary spoke up. 'The police are at
work, trying to get to the bottom of the situation but,
I must admit, they're having trouble. They've been
thwarted in their investigations as to who leased the
property. They've stumbled into a maze of false names,
empty companies and post office boxes, but it seems as if
the place was a base for Holmlander espionage.'
'Special Services?' Sir Darius asked. 'Have they had any
success?'
The Home Secretary waved a hand. 'A little. Tallis and
his men are pursuing shipping records, consular movements
and suchlike.'
The Minister for Defence growled a short, hard laugh.
'Bad lot, these Holmlanders. Below the belt, this.
Underhand. I've never trusted them.'
Sir Darius turned to the black-hatted man. 'Your
people? The Magisterium?'
Craddock cleared his throat. 'We've been working with
Special Services. They handled the mundane matters, my
people the magical. Naturally. Once Tallis's men had
stumbled on to the organisation that the Holmlanders
were using as a front, this Society for Non-magical
Fitness in Greythorn, I swung in my magical investigators.
They confirmed that powerful magic has been
present in the building. Magic of a hitherto unknown
sort. Unfortunately, all of the staff had disappeared and
our ambush failed to capture any of the people who
arrived later.' He paused. 'Your son happened to be there.
I'd like to talk to him about it.'
'I know,' Sir Darius said. 'He told me of the events. It
was the only way I found out about last night's debacle.'
Phillips-Dodd, the Home Secretary, smiled. 'We were
going to let you know. Things became rather busy rather
quickly, I'm afraid. The Holmlanders and whatnot.'
The Prime Minister jabbed his cigar at Sir Darius.
'I told you those Holmlanders had something under their
hats. Put this with their machinations in the Goltan states
and there's a bad smell all around. They're up to something,
mark my words.'
'As I've been saying for some time,' Sir Darius replied.
He crossed his arms on his chest. 'You'll speak against
them while you're campaigning, then? We can have a
united front against their aggression. It will force them to
back down on the Continent, knowing we're united.'
The Minister for Defence pounded the table. 'Capital
idea! Show them we won't put up with any of their
nonsense! That's what we should have done after they
sank the
Osprey
!'
The Prime Minister looked as if he'd bitten into an
apple and found a worm. 'Fitzwilliam, dear boy, you
know I can't do that. With the King so pro-Holmland,
the leader of the Royalist Party can't come out suddenly
and announce the party is anti-Holmland. Impossible,
I'm afraid.'
The Home Secretary shook his head. 'Besides, this
could simply be the work of some rogue elements in
Holmland. I hear they have difficult groups of their own.'
The Minister for Defence snorted and glowered
through his beard, but didn't speak against his colleagues.
Craddock held up a finger. 'One more item. We've
reason to believe that some of the Holmlanders at this
affair were also present at the royal shooting party, the
attempted assassination.'
'Who were the Holmlanders at that disaster?' the
Minister for Defence barked.
The Home Secretary had no notes but did not hesitate.
'We have our eye on von Stralick, one of their spies. He's
disappeared.'
'Find him, will you?' the Prime Minister said. 'We need
to speak to the fellow.'
'We're doing our best, Prime Minister.'
'Naturally, news of this won't become public,' the
Home Secretary said, his voice as smooth as butter. 'Tallis
and his Special Services men have seen to that. One of
the newspapers had wind of what went on in that
confrontation, but we've managed to bring some pressure
to bear there. The managing editor's brother has some
business dealings that the managing editor would rather
not come to light. Needless to say, we've burned all those
dreadful pamphlets.'
'I see,' said Sir Darius. 'To spare my reputation, you're
going to cover this up.'
The Prime Minister sat back in his chair and tucked his
thumbs in his braces. 'Don't mention it, dear boy, don't
mention it. I know you'd do the same for me.'
'Some things the people don't need to know,' the
Home Secretary said.
The Prime Minister jammed the cigar into his mouth,
clasped his hands, put them on the table in front of him,
and leaned forward. 'We don't want this sort of thing out
there, do we? After all, with the election only a few weeks
away, your party would be ruined by a resignation and the
taint of scandal.'
'And you don't want that.'
'Of course not,' the Prime Minister chuckled. 'We aim
to beat you fair and square, not through your party
collapsing. It wouldn't feel right.'
'I see.' Sir Darius nodded. He stood. 'I'm glad you
came, Prime Minister.'
'Don't mention it, Fitzwilliam. Only too pleased to help.'
The meeting broke up quickly after that and, after
bidding the vistors farewell, Sir Darius sat down again at
the table. He folded his arms on his chest, put his head
down, and did not move. Then he tilted his head back
and stared at the ceiling.
'He's going through the meeting again in his head,'
Aubrey said to George. 'He's trying to work out what
went on.'
George looked at Aubrey. 'What
did
go on?'
Aubrey wiped his sleeve across the tabletop. Clouds
rolled across, then vanished and they were looking, once
again, at a glass tabletop. 'I think the Prime Minister was
enjoying his position immensely.'
'He did sound rather pleased with himself.'
'Why wouldn't he be? He has his greatest political
enemy at a great disadvantage. He didn't come here to
pledge support; he came here to crow.'
'And your father knows this? That's why he wasn't
happy at the PM's offer?'
'Of course. The Prime Minister is master of the politics
of deceit. Say one thing, mean another.'
'And this is the man who runs our country?'
Aubrey was silent for a moment. 'There are good
people in politics, George, many of them, trying to do the
best for everyone. Then there are those like Sir Rollo.'
He sighed. 'Politics is dangerous, I think. Only the strong
can resist being corrupted by the power.'
'I can't imagine why anyone would look for a career as
a politician, that's certain.' George stopped. 'Oh. Sorry,
old man.'
Aubrey shrugged. 'It's in the blood, George. It's either
academia, politics or the military, and the military
seems to be doubtful for me at the moment, with my
condition.'
Of course, Sir Darius Fitzwilliam had managed to
combine both careers, a voice nagged at the back of
Aubrey's mind, but he put it aside.
'And what was Craddock doing there?' George asked.
'That's a puzzle,' Aubrey admitted. 'He's not the Prime
Minister's man. At least, I don't think so. His motives
aren't easy to guess.'
'Unlike yours at this minute.'
'I'm sorry, George?'
'You want to go out and find this Holmlander, this
von Stralick.'
Aubrey grinned. 'You know me too well. Of course
I aim to find von Stralick. And, thanks to you, we have
a means of doing so.'
'How so?'
'The Society for Non-magical Fitness. Craddock
implied it was a Holmland sham. No doubt the Magisterium
and the Special Services were trying to ambush
the Holmlander spies.' He grinned. 'They said they'd
stumbled onto the society, but we happen to know how
they arrange their meetings.'
'The agony column code,' George said slowly.
'Precisely. All we need to do is wait until another
meeting is planned via the agony columns and there we
have them.'
'I suppose it would be too much to hope that you want
to tell someone about this?'