Blaze of Glory

'Something to make the Snainton Prize even more securely yours? I can't imagine anyone else matching you for Dux of the school.'

'No. This is more to do with our engagement next weekend. I was thinking about a way to improve my aim.'

George snorted. 'Practice being out of the question.'

'No time for that, George.' He pointed at Tremaine on Magic. 'The Law of Animation is reasonably well established – how to give lifeless objects some vigour through a variation on the Law of Contiguity.'

'Walking broomsticks fetching water, that sort of thing.'

'Exactly.' Aubrey nodded. 'It's not foolproof, but the variables are fairly well worked out. I was thinking of the shot used in the cartridges. If I could apply the Law of Animation and find some way to guide them, the shot could compensate for my inadequate aiming.'

'Ingenious.'

Aubrey seized Tremaine on Magic and flipped through the pages. 'Here it is: "The Law of Propensity – the tendency of objects towards certain actions. For example, most objects have a tendency to fall when dropped from a height."' He snapped the book shut. 'I think I can work this law so that the shot almost has a desire to go in the right direction, towards the target.'

George frowned for a moment. 'If you can perfect this, there may be many people who'd be interested in such a process.'

'Of course. Our friends in the army would love ammunition that wouldn't miss.'

'Smart bullets. Clever shells. Intelligent bombs.'

'Hmm.' Aubrey narrowed his eyes. 'If I can do this discreetly, no-one need ever know.'

George picked up the newspaper. 'Very discreetly.' He tapped the front page. 'Some Holmlander archduke or other is making rather colourful suggestions about your father and the policies he stands for.'

'Again?'

'You're not worried?'

Aubrey took another book from the bookshelf and sat at the desk. 'It wouldn't do much good if I were. Father won't stop making speeches, nor would I want him to.'

'You think he's right?'

'In standing up to bullies? Certainly. In bringing us closer to war? I'm not sure, but I'm not sure of the alternative, either.'

'Tricky thing, international relations.' George shook the newspaper. 'Let's bypass them and concentrate on something important.'

'The Personal Advertisements?'

'Precisely.'

'George, I've never understood your fascination with the agony columns.'

'I'm simply curious. Insight into other lives, glimpses of how strangers live, colourful details. Interesting stuff.'

'That's right. "Mr G. Brown will no longer be responsible for any debts incurred by his father as he is now dead." Profound, that.'

'What about "C.J. Send £10 at once. D.W."? Anything could be going on there. Blackmail, embezzlement, secret plans.'

'It's more likely that D.W. needs money and thinks C.J. is a soft touch.'

'Where's your imagination, old man?'

Aubrey chuckled and returned to his reading.

'What are you going to wear, Aubrey?' George said suddenly.

'To the shooting weekend? No idea.' Aubrey didn't look up from An Inquiry into Enchantments of Motion. He'd found some interesting approaches to the problem of changing momentum by spells that worked on variables of mass and velocity. 'But I'm sure Grandmother will have sorted that out. She'll probably get a trunk or two of clothes organised.'

'Ah.'

'Don't worry. The Holmlanders are notoriously bad dressers. They spend enormous amounts of money on clothes whenever they're posted over here, but they have abominable taste. They'll either look like walking haystacks or they'll scare away any game for miles.'

'That's not much consolation. "There goes George Doyle. He doesn't dress quite as badly as a Holmlander."'

'George, you have tweeds, perfectly acceptable shooting clothes. You're from the country, we're going out to the country. You'll be at home.'

'I hate tweed,' George mumbled. 'It itches.'

Six

AUBREY LIKED TRAINS. HE FOUND IT HARD TO PASS A station without pausing to take in the steam, smoke and organised business that was railway life. The smells of oil and coal appealed to him, as did the knowledge that every station was the beginning of a thousand destinations, all waiting at the other end of the vast steel network that was the railways.

He saw trains as the result of a hundred and fifty years of accumulated expertise and refinement. He admired the power and precision in the engineering that went into engines: the way that coal and water was turned into enough horsepower to pull a laden goods train was testimony to years of practical thinking, each engineer adding his competence to those who'd gone before him.

Or her, Aubrey added mentally, thinking of Lord Ashton's daughter, Sophie, who had recently invented a particularly clever magically augmented anti-blowback valve for locomotive boilers. Extraordinarily expensive, it was, so it was only found on the showpiece locomotives, such as the one he was gazing at.

He stood on the platform of Ashfields Station, the busiest in the city, admiring the Teal, the latest of the Northern Line's engines, the pinnacle of the Hurricane class of engines. The dark green paint glowed on the streamlined cowling as a stoker polished brasswork that already glistened in the morning sun. A thin wisp of steam came from the smokestack, indicating it was some time before the train was to leave.

Aubrey wanted to stop and chat with the driver, but George was looking pained as he waited. 'Come on, George,' Aubrey said, with a lingering glance at the great driving rods and wheels. 'Let's find our compartment.'

Aubrey led the way. He'd been feeling ill at ease all morning and his stroll around the station had done him good, allowing him to think clearly about the looming weekend.

He was willing to admit that he felt ambivalent about the shooting party. The lack of clear direction from his father was awkward. Aubrey was tossing up if it meant that his father had confidence in Aubrey to know what to do, or whether it meant a lack of confidence.

Of course, the sinking of the Osprey was going to make the weekend tense. Aubrey smiled to himself as he imagined how the Albion politicians and generals would be polite through gritted teeth, saying they understood how these things happened while seething underneath. The Holmlanders would be stiff and diplomatic and manage to offend everyone without realising it, as Holmlanders usually did.

It was bound to be a weekend of walking on eggshells. He wondered if his father really had another engagement to go to.

Aubrey marched down the platform, studying his ticket and peering at the carriages. The porter with the bags had to hurry to keep up.

'Here, George,' Aubrey gestured. 'Climb aboard. Next stop, Penhurst Estate Station.'

'Why couldn't we take an ornithopter?' George asked. 'It'd be fun. We'd be there in no time.'