Blaze of Glory

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?'

Aubrey raised an eyebrow. 'What makes you think that?'

'Well, with the way your father has been making noises . . .' George paused, then he nodded. 'Ah.'

Aubrey turned back to his book. 'You see why Sir Darius Fitzwilliam was invited to this shooting weekend? And you see why he has to send someone in his place so it won't seem like he's snubbing the whole affair, thereby insulting not only the heir to the throne but the Holmland delegation, thus adding to the tension between our two countries?'

'I see why you have to go. And what the deuce are you reading?'

'Tremaine on Magic.'

'I see. A racy little story?'

'I wanted to check something. I had a thought about a novel method of applying two disparate magical laws in a way that may have a useful effect.'