Aubrey studied the length of the room. It didn't take much imagination to see Monsieur Jordan at an easel, studying his –
'Model,' Aubrey breathed and sat on the chair that he was sure had been used by an artist's model. But not recently. Monsieur Jordan was dressed in a good suit and tie, unsuitable wear for painting. And yet Aubrey had the impression that someone had been here recently, someone other than Monsieur Jordan. Above the warm, green bite of turpentine, he smelled an acrid chemical odour that was familiar. He concentrated, holding out his hands, palms down, and focusing his magical awareness.
His eyes opened wide. What have we here? he thought. The room had been the site of intense magic. Whatever the spell had been, it was powerful, but the user had been careless in delineating the variables of range and effect. He could sense traces of magical residue everywhere, like the splatters caused by dropping a rock in a pool of mud.
'Aubrey, stop that humming. I think he's waking up.'
George's summons brought Aubrey back to the chaise longue. The eyes that opened, however, didn't reassure him. Blank pits, absent of emotion, they were the eyes of the void. Aubrey looked into them and felt as if he was balanced on the brink of a precipice. The abyss beckoned.
Shaken, he turned away. His hands trembled and he clasped them together. 'Quickly,' he said, 'tie him up.'
'Aubrey? What's wrong with him?' George was pale, uncertain.
'I have no idea, but he's no better. We must restrain him.'
As if to underline Aubrey's words, Monsieur Jordan jerked and tried to sit up in the clumsiest way possible. He ended up folding in the middle like the covers of a book being slammed together. He flopped backward, bared his teeth, then began groaning while he struggled again. George pushed his shoulders down.
'Here.' Aubrey lunged for a large canvas drop cloth that had been flung on the floor. He picked it up with both arms. 'Wrap him up in this.'
They were helped by the inept flailings of Monsieur Jordan. Any half-coordinated child would have been able to escape as Aubrey and George fumbled and cursed their way to spreading the canvas, then winding it around the groaning, drooling artist.
By the time they were done, both Aubrey and George were panting. George rubbed at the side of his jaw where the back of Monsieur Jordan's head had caught him. 'I wish he'd stop that groaning,' he said.
The artist was on the floor, wrapped from neck to knee in the paint-daubed canvas, looking like a particularly colourful cocoon.
'Monsieur Jordan?'
Aubrey looked up to see a distressed Madame Calvert. Behind her were a police officer and a rotund man dressed in a blue suit. From the bag he was carrying, Aubrey was sure he was a doctor.
'He's awake, but . . .' Aubrey flapped a hand. 'Doctor, I think you'll need to look at him.'
Madame Calvert translated and the doctor started toward the unfortunate artist. The police officer stepped forward and interposed himself. 'No,' he said in accented but clear Albionish. 'He must come with me.'
'Monsieur Jordan?' Madame Calvert said. 'Impossible. He's an important artist. Besides, he needs medical care.'
'I must insist,' the police officer said. 'We have the facilities for taking care of these cases.'
'Captain,' Madame Calvert began.
'Inspector, not Captain,' the officer corrected. 'Inspector Paul. But given time, it will be Captain Paul, so you are correct, if a little premature.'
Aubrey rolled his eyes. He'd heard the same confident tones in the junior bureaucrats who flocked around his father, looking for advancement. Inspector Paul was in his middle twenties, dark-haired and dark-eyed. His uniform had creases sharp enough to be a danger to small children. His hair had a centre part so perfect that Aubrey was sure he must use a measuring tape to get it exactly in the middle.
Inspector Paul addressed himself to Madame Calvert while the doctor stared first at Monsieur Jordan, then at the police officer, then at his watch. 'If you have a telephone,' Inspector Paul said, 'I will call my superiors and they will send a special team for Monsieur Jordan.'
Madame Calvert nodded, as if she didn't trust herself to speak, then she shepherded the doctor down the stairs. Before Inspector Paul followed, he nodded at Aubrey and George. 'You will remain, of course? I will have questions for you.'
Monsieur Jordan had lapsed into silence. Aubrey studied the flaccid face and saw no emotions. Without them, he thought, the human face might as well be made of wax.
'Welcome to Lutetia,' Aubrey muttered and he sat on the vacant chaise longue.
'I don't know about you, old man,' George said as he joined him, 'but I was hoping for something a little less exciting.'
Aubrey had the same regrets. In Lutetia for less than a day and already being interviewed by police after being assaulted by a citizen infected with something horrible. So much for a discreet presence in the capital. He knew he should contact the embassy and let the Ambassador know what had happened, but decided that it could wait.
Inspector Paul reappeared, alone. He went to the canvas bolster that had once been an artist.
'What about the doctor?' Aubrey asked. 'Monsieur Jordan hit his head badly.'
Inspector Paul shrugged and Aubrey saw that the gesture was a favourite of the dapper police officer. He probably practises it in front of a mirror, Aubrey thought.
'He doesn't need a doctor,' Inspector Paul said. 'It is very difficult to hurt them when they're in this state.'
'What state would that be? And who are "they"?'
'Nothing to interest a young visitor from Albion.' Inspector Paul smiled. 'Madame Calvert told me you arrived very recently. I hope you enjoy your time in the City of Lights.'
Aubrey knew a dismissal when he heard one. 'I'm sure we will.'
Madame Calvert passed Inspector Paul on the stairs. 'This just came for you,' she said to Aubrey and she held out a large, cream envelope.
At first, Aubrey didn't want to take it. It had all the signs of official correspondence. His experience suggested that such items rarely contained good news.
George saw his hesitation and reached for the envelope, but Aubrey overcame his reluctance and took it before his friend could. Madame Calvert lingered a moment, then left while Aubrey opened the letter.
'It's your father's stationery, isn't it?' George said. 'What's it say?'
Aubrey scanned the letter. His heart sank. 'No, it's not my father's. It's from the office of the Prime Minister.'
'Same thing, isn't it?'
'Not really. This is official, and probably not written by him.' It's not a note from a father to his son, in other words. 'It's to let me know that the Prime Minister of Albion will be in Lutetia soon for an official meeting with his Gallian counterpart.' He tapped the paper with a forefinger. 'My father is going to be here on the twenty-sixth, George.'