Authors: Michael Pryor
Is that why I don't want to tell him that magic won't be my
entire life?
Aubrey thought.
Is it that I don't want to disappoint
him?
He felt Dr Tremaine's compelling gaze as he tried to
frame a suitable response.
The headmaster coughed, and Dr Tremaine seemed to
remember he was there. 'Headmaster! You do fine work
here!' He swept his arm around the table. 'Your students!
I drink to them!'
He raised his wine, drained it and studied the empty
glass. 'Fine vintage, headmaster.'
'Yes, well . . .' The headmaster grasped for a conversational
straw. 'Tell us, Dr Tremaine, what are you working
on at the moment?'
Dr Tremaine sat back in his seat and placed his arms
on the rests. 'Many things, headmaster, many things.
Foremost is my work heading up a top secret research
establishment. Some fascinating magical work going on
there. Can't say much, though.'
'Of course,' the headmaster said.
Aubrey couldn't help himself. 'Defence-related, is it?'
Dr Tremaine narrowed his eyes. 'Why do you say that,
Fitzwilliam?'
'Well, doing work for the army or the navy would
be the quickest way to earn top secret status, especially
with the way things are going on the continent, hints
of war and such.' He paused, then plunged ahead. 'There
are rumours of Holmland aggression in the Goltan states,
and even that they've used new magically enhanced
weapons.'
Dr Tremaine was silent for a while, then he grinned
and slapped the armrest. 'Damn me, Fitzwilliam, I like
the way your mind works!' He turned to the head of the
table. 'Headmaster, let me know if he wants to study
magic at university. I'll put in a good word for him.'
Aubrey smiled, but he didn't fail to notice that Dr
Tremaine hadn't answered his question.
Dr Tremaine pounded a fist on the table, pushed back
his chair and stood. 'Staggeringly good meal, headmaster!'
The headmaster rose and looked worried. 'You'll stay
and talk to some of the boys?'
Dr Tremaine shook his head and picked up his cane. 'I'd
love to, but I have a young lady I promised to meet at the
theatre. Hopeless actress, but you can't have everything.'
The headmaster looked nonplussed, but Dr Tremaine
saw the direction of Aubrey's gaze. 'You like my cane, do
you, Fitzwilliam?'
Aubrey had actually been wondering how he'd look
with a cane like that. It was a dashing accessory. 'Yes, sir.'
'Well, I'd love to give it to you as a reward for your
stimulating company, but,' he held it up in both hands,
at chest height, 'this is special. Damned nuisance, but
special.'
'It's handsome, sir.'
Dr Tremaine rubbed the pearl head with a thumb and
stared at it. 'My sister gave it to me. Just before she died,
she made me promise that it would never leave my side.
Like a fool, I agreed.'
'Is it magical, sir?'
Dr Tremaine's face was thoughtful and he didn't take
his gaze away from the pearl. 'No, not unless you mean
the ordinary magic of memory.' He sighed. 'Every time
I look at it, I remember her.' He shook himself. 'Enough
of that.' He seized the headmaster's hand. 'Goodbye, headmaster.
Best of luck with the gout!'
After Dr Tremaine left, driving an outrageous open
automobile, Aubrey and George strolled back to their
rooms. A spindly figure appeared around the corner of
the gymnasium and tottered towards them.
'I wonder what Addison wants?' Aubrey said.
Addison was by far the oldest porter at Stonelea
School, being young when Aubrey's grandfather was at
the school. It was rumoured he'd been in the place longer
than many of the buildings.
Bandy-legged and bald as an egg, he hurried towards
them. One outstretched hand held an envelope and he
had a newspaper tucked under his arm. 'Master Fitzwilliam!'
he called. 'Master Fitzwilliam! Letter for you!'
'On a Sunday?' George said. Aubrey shrugged and held
out his hand.
It was obvious that the letter was important. The envelope
was a heavy, cream paper and when Aubrey turned
it over the blob of red sealing wax stood out. He
scratched at it with a thumbnail and its greasy solidity
spoke of someone with money, a sense of tradition and
extremely good taste. Someone very familiar.
A very formal approach, Father
, he thought, then he read
the letter. When he had finished, he carefully folded it
and placed it back in the envelope. He ran one finger
along the length of the envelope, thinking. 'Thank you,
Addison,' he said vaguely.
Addison tipped his cap. As he turned to go, he remembered
what was under his arm. 'Your newspaper, Master
Doyle.' He thrust it at George and hurried off.
Aubrey began walking towards the boarding house,
thinking deeply. George fell into step beside him. As they
walked past the cricket nets, he burst out, 'Dash it,
Aubrey! Who's that letter from?'
Aubrey blinked. 'Sorry. I was miles away.' He stopped and
rested against the fence. He looked down at the envelope
he still held. 'It's from my father. It's his official stationery
and seal. He wants me to do something for him.'
'Something official?'
'Yes.'
'And you're wondering why he didn't ask you last night.'
Aubrey glanced sharply at George. His friend's broad,
friendly face frowned back at him. With his height,
massive frame and sandy hair, George looked every inch
a country bumpkin, but Aubrey knew his friend was no
fool.
People don't know how shrewd you are, do they?
he
thought.
'Am I that easy to read?' he laughed. He set off again,
striding comfortably. He felt strong, eager and alive, ready
to challenge the world.
'Well, it's obvious that's what you'd be thinking,'
George persisted.
Aubrey stopped and turned. He thrust out his chest,
drew in his chin and looked at George over imaginary
spectacles. 'Obvious, Doyle?' he barked in his best imitation
of the Advanced Magic master. 'Be so good as to
share the obvious with us all!'
George laughed. 'One day, Mr Ellwood will catch you
doing that, Aubrey, and you'll be suspended from his
classes. Then you'll be sorry.'
'You cannot deny an artist his craft,' Aubrey said.
'When the impulse comes on me, the actor comes out.'
He chuckled. 'But I'm still interested in why you think I
was wondering about my father.'
'It's not difficult. When you look particularly thoughtful
and sombre, it's usually your father you're thinking of.'
Aubrey let out a long sigh. 'You've known my family
for too long.' He looked away. 'Perhaps he simply couldn't
ask me face to face.'
'Of course he could. Whatever it is.'
'You know, this is the first time he's ever asked me to
do something official like this. I've been impatient, but
now it's come I'm feeling a little –'
'Anxious? Nervous? Petrified?'
Aubrey glanced sharply at George. 'Anxious will do,
old man.'
He turned away and gazed over the oval.
How do you
live up to a man like Darius Fitzwilliam?
he thought.
It was
hard enough for the men he commanded in the army. But for me,
his only son?
He knew many people simply wouldn't try. Casting
such a bright light makes all others seem pale and insignificant.
Better to turn away, not attempt the impossible.
Achieving even some portion of his success would be a
fine achievement. To others, though, having the bar set at
such a dizzying height meant the challenge was greater.
Aubrey wasn't about to give up. His ambitions were
very, very lofty.
'Well?' George said. 'Are you going to tell me what this
mysterious task is?'
Aubrey considered for a moment. 'How's your aim?'
'My aim?'
'Shooting, George. A country boy like you should be a
crack shot.'
'I do well enough.'
'Grand. You're doing nothing next weekend, I take it?'
'Aubrey, you know very well that I'm stuck at school
every weekend during term time, home being so far
away. What are you getting at?'
George's home may have been far away, but Aubrey
had spent much time at the small farm in the weary old
hills near Green River. George was an only child, and Mr
and Mrs Doyle were always happy to have Aubrey visit –
and it gave Mr Doyle and Sir Darius a chance to reminisce
in the guarded, elusive way that old soldiers often
have. Aubrey remembered lingering in the warm kitchen,
amid the hunger-inducing smells of baking bread and
spice cake, hoping to hear stories of the old regimental
victories, but the two men tended to talk of comrades
and their circumstances, Sir Darius usually providing
most of the details.
'Bertie is hosting a shooting weekend at his estate and
my father has been invited. Unfortunately, he's been called
away, can't be there. He's asked me to deputise for him.'
'Bertie?'
'The Crown Prince, George. The heir to the throne of
Albion. The oldest son of the King. My cousin. You know
the one.'
'Ah. Prince Albert.'
George had never grown used to Aubrey's closeness to
the Royal Family. Prince Albert was only a few years
older than Aubrey and they'd spent much time together
when younger.
Aubrey felt sorry for Bertie. He would have made an
excellent banker or a businessman but instead he was
destined to be a king. Fortunately, he had a strong sense
of duty. He never complained and, in time, Aubrey had
come to the conclusion that Bertie's sense of duty – and
his thoughtfulness – would mean he'd work hard to
become the best king he could.
And that should be very fine indeed
, he thought.
'Think, George,' Aubrey continued, 'a relaxing weekend
in the country. Plenty of good food, fine accommodation,
interesting company . . .'
George grinned. 'A pity you're perfectly dreadful at
shooting.'
Aubrey shrugged. 'I've had all the lessons. I'm
adequate.'
'Adequate? I suppose it depends on what you mean. If
you mean that you haven't actually shot yourself by
accident, then by all means describe yourself as adequate.'
George laced his fingers together and placed them on his
chest. 'I'll come, then. I might be able to spare you some
embarrassment.'
'I'm honoured.'
Aubrey's father shot, of course. And played golf off
scratch, was an expert bridge player, a champion horseman
and sailed in international ocean races. Any pursuit
that important men indulged in, Sir Darius Fitzwilliam
was a leading light.
And here Sir Darius was asking Aubrey, for the first
time, to deputise for him.
Aubrey decided that the official request meant that this
was too important for an informal approach. This was the
Leader of the Opposition needing someone to stand in
for him. Aubrey felt a momentary glow at the trust this
implied, but it faded when he realised that it was also a
challenge, as was Sir Darius's wont.
Deputise. A simple word, but it was full of meaning.
Aubrey knew he was able to chat to Bertie well enough,
but 'deputise' meant more than that.
He tapped the letter in his pocket.
Why didn't he give me
a list of duties?
he thought, but he knew the answer. It was
like the dinner table challenge of the night before. The
test was how Aubrey responded to such a broad brief as
'deputise'.
Aubrey ran through some possibilities. Observe. Be
discreet. Keep up the Fitzwilliam name. Be diplomatic.
Report back.
They set off again. In the distance, past the hockey
field, the cadet corps were drilling. Fragments of shouted
commands drifted to Aubrey, sounding like the yipping
of excited dogs.
'It's a special weekend, George,' he said as they
mounted the stairs to their room. 'The Crown Prince has
asked some Holmland diplomats along.'
George raised his eyebrows. 'So soon after the sinking
of the
Osprey
? Won't that be a little . . . well, awkward?'
'That's one of the things the Crown Prince is good at,
smoothing over awkwardness. Much better than the
King, at the moment, anyway. The Elektor of Holmland
has publicly apologised for sinking our cruiser, the
Holmland navy has expressed regret and called it a tragic
error. Our government is apparently taking them at their
word and trying to patch things up.'
Aubrey was sure that the King had had something to
do with the invitation. It was probably another of his
efforts to show all Albion what splendid fellows the
Holmlanders were. As they had to be, ruled by the King's
cousin. The Elektor of Holmland was one of his many
kin on the continent and the King couldn't bear to see
disharmony between the two countries. His efforts were
genuine – as were the headaches they caused the Crown
Prince and the government.
With the messy situation on the continent, especially
the constant strife between the nations on the Goltan
Peninsula, Aubrey was not about to disagree with
attempts to keep the peace. Although he wondered what
the wives and children of the lost sailors from the
Osprey
would say.
'Prince Albert enjoys hunting?' George threw open the
door. The help had made the beds and rearranged
the mess so it looked almost habitable again.
'Lord no, he can't stand it.' Aubrey stood at his desk,
pushing his hair back out of his eyes.
George sat in the comfortable chair and unfolded the
newspaper. 'I must have missed something. Prince Albert
hates hunting but he's holding a gala shooting weekend
and inviting a horde of Holmlanders to come along?'
'Duty, George. It's all about duty. Host the Holmlanders.
Show them what a decent lot we are really.
Emphasise the family ties, too, with Bertie playing the
expansive host with one and all.'
Aubrey pulled a book from the crowded shelf over
the desk.
'This wouldn't have anything to do with the war?'