'No,' Duval said. 'They're not dead. They are missing something.'
'Their soul?'
'Possibly. Rumours are like lightning, facts are like snails.'
It sounded intriguing, but what really pricked at Aubrey was the notion of souls being stolen. He hadn't considered this, even though he knew that potent magic had been involved in Monsieur Jordan's case. Any magic that involved souls interested him as there was always the possibility that it could shed light on his own condition.
Duval thumped the table with a fist, making Aubrey jump. 'Ha!' the Gallian said. 'It is too beautiful a day to be so gloomy! And with such beautiful ladies, we should be singing, not sighing!'
Caroline laughed and Aubrey's heart sank. The Gallian's continental charm was powerful. What hope did dull old Aubrey have?
The party eventually left the café as evening was drawing in. Aubrey claimed tiredness and tried to slip away, but he was dragged along with the crowd who, true to Duval's words, sang as they wove along the streets of Lutetia. The Albion Friendship Society became a sort of caravan as it made its way from one landmark to another, stopping at various oases for refreshments as the need arose. The need seemed to arise with astonishing frequency.
They had just finished admiring the electric lights illuminating the Middle Bridge and were about to leave to see the rebuilt Town Hall when George tugged on Aubrey's arm. 'Something's heading our way, old man.'
Aubrey peered across the river to see a host of flaming torches coming toward the bridge.
Duval flapped his arms with some urgency. 'Quick! Quick! Let them through!'
Aubrey agreed that it was best not to be caught on the bridge with such a horde. He saw that Caroline had made her way down the stairs to the walkway along the embankment, and that George was nearby. He went after them. They came together near a statue of a revolutionary hero on a horse that looked as if it was tired of being bronze.
The marchers tramped closer to the bridge. They went in good order, silent except for the noise of hobnailed boots on cobblestones. They were dressed in workers' clothes – twill trousers, vests, cloth caps – and those who weren't brandishing torches were holding up placards announcing that they were the Marchmaine Independence League. Aubrey raised an eyebrow. The movement had more supporters than he'd thought. When his father had spoken of it, Aubrey had imagined a few unworldly troublemakers standing on street corners and haranguing passers-by.
Aubrey climbed the grassy bank to the road above to see better, and a few of the more curious actors went with him.
He could spy no obvious leader of the marchers. Grim faced, many had rolled-up sleeves, an indication that they'd recently come from work. Or they're expecting more physical exertion, Aubrey thought. He glanced in the direction they were marching – toward the Town Hall – and his eyes widened.
An equally large mass was heading up the road directly toward the Marchmainers. This crowd didn't hold up torches, nor placards. Streetlights glinted from gold braid and highly polished truncheons.
'Police,' Aubrey said. A reveller at his shoulder muttered something uncomplimentary. Soon the word had spread through the Albion Friendship Society. Nonchalantly, they backed away and gathered on the embankment, well away from the road and the bridge.
Aubrey decided that the Lutetians would know best, and he followed. An iron rail ran along the edge of the embankment and Aubrey vaulted onto it for a better view. He steadied himself against a wrought-iron lamp post and watched, with trepidation, as the two opposing groups spied each other.
A ripple spread through the front ranks of the Marchmainers. Murmured commands, passed from one comrade to the next, slowed the procession, packing bodies close together. Soon, they stopped, filling the bridge and stretching south up Charity Avenue. They stood, torches burning, waiting.
A whistle sounded from the police. They, too, stopped, boots crashing as the ranks halted in good order twenty yards from the Marchmainers.
The two groups eyed each other. 'What's going to happen?' he asked Duval. The director's face was pale.
'Nothing, I hope. The Marchmainers have not been violent before. I do not know why the police are here.'
Aubrey frowned and scanned the area. His fingertips were itching in a way that said magic was nearby. He rubbed them together, but the feeling didn't diminish – it grew more intense. He concentrated, casting about with his magical awareness, and he caught a touch, a flavour that was tantalisingly familiar. It had a resonance that he'd encountered before – and it was growing more powerful. Before he could recall it exactly, he was shocked by a wave of potent enchantment that shook him deeply, leaving him stunned for a moment. Reeling, he clutched at the lamp post, struggling to draw breath. Numbly, he felt as if the whole world had shivered. He gasped, drawing a sharp look from George. 'What's wrong, old man?'
Aubrey shook his head as the unsettling sensation receded. A spell had been cast, very close by, a spell of such force that he'd been caught in its poorly limited field of effect. He shook his head, slowly, trying to clear it. He felt as if he'd been picked up by the collar and shaken by a terrier the size of an elephant.
An angry shout came from the mass of Marchmainers. Aubrey tried to see who it was, as the man kept up a long stream of invective, cursing the police, the government and – most puzzlingly – his bootmaker.
Aubrey finally spied the shouter as those around him turned, clearly startled by his vehemence. He was stocky, with a bald head and fringe of grey beard. His face was very red, even in the yellow light of the electric lamps on the bridge. As he ranted, he shook both fists in the air. His comrades took steps backward as spittle began to fly.
Another voice rose from the Marchmainers, equally angry. A tall youth on the far side of the bridge howled bloodthirsty threats at the police. He leapt onto the guard rail of the bridge and danced with rage. After a moment of spiralling, lunatic shouting, he lost his footing and plunged, still shouting, to the river below.
Men rushed to the railing, but after a mighty splash, the stream of angry abuse floated up to them uninterrupted. Instead of relief, however, this seemed to prompt fury in the rest of the Marchmainers. Anger swept through them and soon the disciplined parade was a mob: hoarsethroated, red-faced, fists shaking.
Aubrey felt their wrath as something tangible. It reached out and nudged him, rudely. What right do they have? he thought immediately, then he wondered who they were. His sudden temper was unfocused, but urgent and hard to ignore. He glanced at George. His fists were clenched and his nostrils flared. On his left, Duval was muttering under his breath.
Magic. How could I have forgotten? Aubrey pinched his own cheek and his anger ebbed. He realised he had the lamp post in a death grip. He let go, slowly. 'George, Caroline. It's a spell. Don't let it consume you.'
The magic had the same characteristics as the spell they'd encountered following the assassination attempt on the Crown Prince and the death of Caroline's father. Then, they'd run into magic that distilled fear into a paralysis-inducing terror – Dr Tremaine's handiwork and part of his plans to bring Albion to war.