Word of Honour (5 page)

Sir Darius had managed – very smoothly, Aubrey
noticed – to come to Lady Rose's side. He stood with
his hand on her shoulder. The look they gave each other
was so full of meaning that it fascinated Aubrey. There
was reproach, bafflement and relief – from both sides –
and a thousand questions demanding to be asked, with an
understanding that they could wait until later.

They didn't speak a word.

Caroline's hair had come loose in the chaos of fleeing
the freighter, Aubrey noticed. She had a blanket around
her shoulders and looked angry, as if personally affronted
by the goings-on.

In all the manoeuvring in the wardroom, she hadn't
directly looked at him once, whereas he found it hard to
stop staring at her.

What were you doing on that freighter?
he wanted to ask.
Are you all right? Why aren't you in the Arctic?

But he knew these were really trivial excuses to avoid
asking the most important question, the one that
mattered most:
Have you forgiven me?

'Coincidence?' Lady Rose said, answering her husband's
initial question. She put down her cup of tea.
'Perhaps your stumbling on us was a coincidence. But the
attack wasn't. They were Holmlanders and they'd been
waiting for us.'

'Holmlanders?' Sir Darius said. His voice was steely
and Aubrey knew he was furious. 'They flew no
Holmland flag.'

'No, but I can tell a Holmland accent, even over a
megaphone.'

'They hailed us,' Caroline said, fuming. 'They came
alongside and hailed us. Demanded we stop and be
boarded.'

'The captain would have none of that,' Lady Rose said.
'He tried to outrun them.'

'The first shell took out the bridge,' Caroline said.
'The captain was killed.'

'And then you arrived,' Lady Rose said.

'But why do you think it wasn't just opportunistic?
Was the freighter carrying valuable cargo?' Aubrey asked.

'Valuable cargo?' Lady Rose said. 'Just the specimens
we salvaged from our expedition. Seabirds, mostly.'

'From one disaster to another,' Caroline said. 'We were
lucky to save anything at all.'

'But what were they after, then?'

Caroline looked at him for the first time. It was a look
of impatience and incredulity, and it made Aubrey feel
quite weak. 'Why, your mother, of course.'

A
WHOLE DAY OF APOLOGIES, ACCUSATIONS, HAND
-waving,
finger-pointing and promises didn't help
Aubrey cope with the effects of his spell-casting exertions.
As a major witness to the
Electra
's near-disaster,
instead of resting and recuperating, he joined his father
in meeting after meeting. Top navy personnel, senior
Magisterium operatives and embarrassed Special Service
agents all wanted to document and argue over the events
of the submersible's sabotage.

The word 'sabotage' was used reluctantly at first. By
the end of the two days, however, all at Clear Haven used
it with a certainty that chilled Aubrey. The perpetrators
weren't mentioned by name, but there seemed no doubt
that Holmand was responsible.

Rokeby-Taylor was noticeably absent from all of this.
The moment the
Electra
had docked, he'd claimed
any number of pressing engagements and hurried to his
waiting ornithopter. Aubrey was impressed by this deft –
if temporary – display of blame-dodging.

Rokeby-Taylor's well-oiled departure left many
questions unanswered. Each meeting ended with a
recommendation that development of the special
submersible be halted, with continuation subject to
further investigation.

Sir Darius promised Admiral Elliot that he'd take
the matter up with Cabinet – and that no news of the
incident would reach the public.

All throughout that long day, Aubrey tried to catch
Caroline, but he was dragged from one meeting to
another with barely time to catch his breath. He held
out hopes for the trip back to Trinovant but Caroline
snapped up the co-pilot's seat, while Aubrey was jammed
in a tiny space in the rear of the ornithopter. Alone,
he dozed uncomfortably all the way home, a control
conduit thrumming irritatingly right near his head.

The next morning, George received a telephone call at
Maidstone, asking him home, which finally gave Aubrey
a chance to rest – something he needed more than
anything else in the world.

The magical efforts on the submersible had jolted
the hold he'd established on his soul. He was back on the
wearying, painful treadmill of trying to hold himself
together, and he hated it.

In this state, nothing was good. The constant threat of
utter dissolution had preyed on him, haunted his days,
lurked behind his successes and his everyday happiness.

He accepted that he'd made no progress; his discoveries
in Lutetia had been promising, and for a brief
time he'd actually felt what it was like to be cured, but
ultimately it was a magical dead end in a way that went
beyond punning.

His correspondence with researchers, academics and
savants across the world had yielded little. Some of
this was due to the guarded, theoretical nature of his
inquiries, but he couldn't afford to be open. His condition
was a secret that only he and George knew. He was
going to keep it that way.

Part of this was simple embarrassment. He didn't want
to become a laughing stock – the ambitious young
magician who fell on his face. A more lofty motive was
to spare his father any poor press. The Prime Minister's
son a bungler on a monumental scale? What sort of a
father would allow such a thing to happen?

He found rest difficult to come by. His mind kept
whirring, picking up half-thoughts and poking at them,
trying to tie them together. Finally he climbed out of
bed, groaning when his joints felt as if someone had
seeded them with ground glass.

He limped to his father's study and took Dr Tremaine's
pearl from the family safe.

In the complex interweaving of plot and counterplot
leading up to the attempt on the King's life, Aubrey
had come into possession of the pearl that Dr Tremaine
had embedded in the head of his cane. This pearl had
been a present from Dr Tremaine's sister, who had died
some years ago, a sister whom he loved beyond anything
else.

It was roughly egg-shaped, the size of the tip of his
thumb, but it wasn't smooth like most other pearls
Aubrey had seen. It was creased and folded like a miniature
brain.

The pearl had meant so much to Dr Tremaine, Aubrey
wondered if it were a magical artefact. After probing it
for some time, he provisionally decided it was what
Dr Tremaine claimed – a souvenir in the true sense
of the word: a remembrance, a concrete reminder of
someone dear.

He put it back in the safe and returned to his room,
but didn't banish it from his mind.

He was still brooding on it when Tilly, the maid,
knocked at his door to say his father wanted to see him
in the library.

He stood in front of the cheval mirror, and brushed his
jacket and his hair, doing his best to look presentable. As
long as no-one noticed the dark circles under his eyes,
the sallow skin and the slight trembling of his hands,
he thought he could achieve a level of presentability.
Provided the standards weren't high.

He straightened his tie and he rubbed his eyes. He was
tired again – naggingly, insistently tired. How could he
go on like this?

The answer that came to him was simple. It was also
unwelcome, almost repellent, and he realised that it had
been lurking at the back of his mind for some time but
he had refused to listen.

Do no more magic.

Magic was the worst sort of strain. If he renounced it,
his body and soul would be much easier to keep in equilibrium.
It promised an enduring, perhaps permanent,
solution.

But he didn't want to do it.

He had a talent for magic. That was part of his reluctance
– the natural aversion to wasting an aptitude; but it was
more than that. He
enjoyed
magic. He liked being special.
It was exhilarating to engage with the very stuff of the
universe itself, to face challenges that required the utmost
from him.

How could he give that up?

Magic was who he was. It defined him.

But even as this came to him, he resisted such a classification.
He was Aubrey Fitzwilliam; he was more than a
simple label!

Early on in his pursuit of magic, he'd thought it was
truly possible to know everything about it, to master it in
all its glory. Then he'd come to the understanding that he
couldn't know it all. It had been a depressing thought.
Hard on the heels of this insight came his usual response:
what to do about it. In the end, he drew a diagram of the
various branches of magic – including a large area cate-gorised
as 'Unknown/Yet to be established' – and circled
the areas to which he wanted to dedicate himself. The
challenging, the outlandish, the difficult, the mysterious
held a heady allure; the well-established, the tried and
true were less attractive. If he needed to know more
about the Magic of Light or Thermal Magic he could
consult someone.

Contemplating this now, he came to the conclusion
that if he gave up the
practice
of magic, there was much
to be involved with. He could still research the field.
The universities were full of people who did vital
work, delineating, exploring and refining spells in
an abstract sense, working on crucial areas of magical
theory. He could do some serious investigation into
the interaction between language and magic, for
instance. A universal language of magic would be a
staggering breakthrough, a thoroughly worthwhile
goal.

It seemed like an eminently sensible approach. Not
dull in any way. Not at all.

S
IR
D
ARIUS STOOD BEHIND THE LONG, GILT TABLE IN THE
middle of the library. When Aubrey entered, he looked
up from a large book. He closed it and Aubrey saw, with
interest, that it was the Scholar Tan's
Deliberations on War
.
It was his father's favourite, but he knew it by heart
and only consulted it when wrestling with profound and
knotty problems. His eye could roam over familiar words
while his mind worked away.

'Ah, Aubrey. Good to see you. You've recovered from
the events at Clear Haven?'

'I have, sir.'
In a way.
'And you?'

'Quite. Thank you.'

Sir Darius contemplated the red leather cover of the
book in front of him. 'Aubrey. You're seventeen now.'

For a moment, Aubrey thought he heard the appalling
klaxon again.
He's stating the obvious
, he thought.
Something's
very wrong
. 'Eighteen in December,' he said, carefully.

'Close the door, there's a good chap.'

Closed door. It's even worse than I thought.

By now Aubrey's imagination had conjured up a
number of ghastly scenarios. A deadly disease. A scandal
from the past. Blackmail. Financial mismanagement. 'What
is it, sir? Is anything wrong?'

'Sit, Aubrey. There's something I need to talk to you
about.'

He didn't answer the question
, Aubrey thought as he
perched on the edge of one of the heavy leather chairs.
It's worse than worse.

His father took a seat on the other side of the table.
Suddenly, it felt awkwardly like an interview.

Sir Darius was dressed in black. His tie was silver-grey.
His shoes glowed with the sort of shine that only comes
from truly dedicated – and well-paid – servants. He was
every inch the modern Prime Minister.

Yet Aubrey saw that his father was immensely
uncomfortable.

'Now, Aubrey. You're an only child.'

Aubrey's face fell. 'Mother isn't expecting, is she?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'I'm not going to have a baby brother. Or sister. Am I?'
Aubrey pressed both his hands together and studied
them. 'Well, I suppose I can live with that, if that's all
that's wrong. Thousands do, I know. Have baby siblings,
that is. Which I wouldn't be. Having it, that is. Him.
Or her. Not it.'

Sir Darius waited until Aubrey had wound down. 'Are
you finished?'

'I just wanted to reassure you, sir, that I'm happy to be
an older brother. I'm aware of the responsibilities and I
look forward to them.'

'I see.' A hint of a smile. 'A pity, then, that nothing of
that kind is planned. And I should know, after all.'

'Of course. Sir. Yes, you would. Naturally.'

Sir Darius coughed and looked out of the window.
Aubrey was grateful to follow his gaze and saw that Hobbs,
the gardener, was turning the daffodils or declumping the
rhododendron or some other mysterious, earthy pursuit.

After he'd sufficiently gathered himself, Sir Darius
started again. 'Aubrey, you are my only heir.'

Aubrey nodded. It seemed safest not to talk.

'You would have become Duke of Brayshire after me,
had I not renounced my title.'

Another nod.

'While you won't have the title, I do have something
to pass on to you. I believe now is the time.'

'Now?' One word. Safe enough.

'You are a young man. You are studying at university.
You are beginning to chart the course of your own life.'
Sir Darius measured his words. 'Aubrey, you are a fine
individual, with many gifts. Your conduct on the
Electra
was exemplary.'

Aubrey swallowed. 'Thank you, sir.'

'It is difficult, being a parent. Especially a father.'

'Sir.'

'I feared my father, Aubrey. He believed, as did all
men of his generation, in discipline as the way to raise
children. There was nothing gentle about him. He was
fair, but stern, distant and judgemental.'

Aubrey was fascinated – and embarrassed. His father
had never spoken to him this way. The old Duke of
Brayshire was a dim memory to Aubrey, the grandfather
who gave piggy-backs. The man must have softened in
his old age. 'I . . .'

'Don't say anything, Aubrey. I realise this must be
awkward for you, and talking is your first reaction in all
circumstances. Listen this time, there's a good chap.'

Aubrey subsided.

'I vowed I wouldn't raise my son as my father raised
his.' Sir Darius found an interesting piece of lint on his
lapel. 'I dare say that's a promise that's been made more
than once in history, but it was the best I could do. I may
have been harsh with you, Aubrey. Difficult. It was with
the best of intentions.' Sir Darius stood. 'I want you to
come with me.'

'Where?'

'To the Bank of Albion.'

The landau was waiting at the front door. The weather
being fine, Aubrey thought the open carriage a splendid
choice, but his mind was racing. His father was being
mysterious, but clumsily so. This was no clever joke or
elaborate charade – there was something endearingly
uncomfortable about the whole affair. It showed a side of
his father that he'd rarely seen.

The driver eased the matched greys out of the gates of
Maidstone. With Sir Darius sitting in reflective silence
and Aubrey unwilling to spoil the moment, the carriage
clip-clopped along Highton Street towards the city.
The black motorcar following closely was a sign of the
increased diligence of the Special Services bodyguards.