This magic had all the same hallmarks: an emotion, distilled and refined, ready to launch on unsuspecting victims. An emotion bomb.
He climbed down from the rail. George shook himself then rubbed his face with both hands. 'Nasty stuff, that.' He shuddered.
'Magic,' Caroline said. She pushed her hair back. 'I can still feel the anger. It crept up on me.'
Duval stared at them. He had pushed the anger aside, but the effort had left him pale-faced and shaking.
More shouts rose, this time from the police. Aubrey jerked around and saw that the calm, resigned faces of the constables had gone. They were running, faces contorted with hatred, truncheons held high.
Aubrey stared. The Marchmainers heaved forward, gibbering in anger, losing their words as they were swept up by their fury. Their hobnails clattered as they hurried to throw themselves at the police.
The two forces crashed together. More shouting and cries of pain erupted as bodies struck bodies, then it was fist and truncheon work.
As the brawl quickly spread, Aubrey realised that they could be in danger. Men stood toe to toe, swinging wild punches, roaring their wordless anger. Others wrestled, heaving each other to the ground while crashing into melees where screaming men pummelled each other.
The sound of the battle was the sound of wild beasts, an entire jungle gone mad.
'We should leave,' he said to George and Caroline, but just then the mayhem spilled over the bridge and down the grassy bank. In an instant, they were swallowed up in the clash.
George raised his fists. Aubrey went to stand in front of Caroline, but she stiff-armed a police office who clawed at her. The officer staggered backward and was taken in a clumsy bear hug by a Marchmainer with a torn, bloody ear.
Aubrey grinned at Caroline. She reached for him. 'Look out!'
Aubrey was cannoned into from behind. His momentum sent him right over the iron rail on the edge of the embankment. He somersaulted through the air, struck the greasy river, half-winded, and sank.
Shocked by the coldness of the water, he tried to get his breath back, which was a bad idea as he was now well beneath the surface. He choked, thrashed, then shot to the surface. He wiped water from his eyes and saw that the battle was now raging along the bridge and up and down the embankment. He couldn't see George or Caroline.
Aubrey's clothes weighed him down and he swallowed oily water. His boots filled and felt like lead weights. He gasped, heart pounding, fearing he'd be dragged to the bottom and drowned, and he had a fleeting moment of embarrassment at the prospect of such an undignified end. The newspapers would love it, he thought.
Soon, however, he realised that he could keep afloat as long as he churned and thrashed like a whirligig. He felt like an idiot, trying to keep himself upright, but this prompted an idea. Sound consisted of waves, and he'd had some experience applying the Law of Amplification to sounds. Using some of the same principles, could he cast a spell that would work on waves in water?
He swept his arm. A puny swell spread toward the riverbank. Aubrey chanted the amplification spell, looking to adjust the variables for intensity and distance to account for the different medium through which the waves would travel. Bobbing in the water, he coughed the spell out, syllable by syllable.
The wave grew. Slowly at first, it was nearly a foot high when it reached the embankment. It smacked against the stone blocks, then rolled back on itself, mounting as it came. It picked Aubrey up like a cork, raising him a full yard, then it was past and making its way toward the far bank.
Aubrey wallowed around, trying to trace its progress. In the darkness, lights from the far bank stretched out toward him, long fingers rippling on the water. He thought he could make out a shadowy line moving away. He glanced behind him to see the brawl was still raging.
A roar dragged him back to stare at the far bank. His eyes widened when he saw the shadow line strike. Spray leapt into the air with a hollow boom and then the wave was racing back toward him, climbing higher with each second.
He'd been more successful than he'd thought.
He sucked in a lungful of air and dived, aiming for the river bottom. He felt the wave pass overhead, tugging at his water-logged clothes, and he was tossed about by its passage. He clawed for the surface in time to see the wave, now fifteen feet or more tall, crash against the embankment. The mass of water crested, then toppled onto the unsuspecting brawlers.
Foam crashed on stone. The wave rolled part-way up the bank, then receded, dragging stunned Marchmainers and police back to the river with it. Some managed to cling to the railing, but many ended up in the water.
A voice came through the darkness. 'Aubrey! Take my hand!'
Caroline. He floundered toward the embankment. She was leaning far out, her other hand gripped by George who, in turn, had his arm wrapped around the lamp post. Aubrey found muddy stone underfoot and she gripped his wrist. She helped him clamber up.
He rested on his knees, head bowed, panting.
'You're shaking like a leaf,' she said.
THE WAVE HAD DONE WHAT AUBREY HAD HOPED FOR, dousing the passion of both the police and the Marchmainers. The two soggy groups separated, limping away from each other, the unhurt helping the wounded, while dozens were being pulled from the river. Sullen bewilderment had replaced the spell-induced anger, with the Marchmainers disappearing back over the bridge before the police could rally enough to make any arrests. Aubrey watched, wet and shivering. Caroline was barely damp and had avoided being thrown into the river. George was wet to his waist and had a bruised shoulder, but was more concerned with Aubrey's wellbeing than his own.
Aubrey sat with his back to a lamp post. He was exhausted. A gulf yawned inside him, an emptiness that was frightening. He shuddered, recoiling from its implications.' Duval?' he asked. 'The others?'
George had his hands jammed in the pockets of his jacket. He'd lost his boater. From his sour expression, he wasn't about to go and look for it. 'No-one's too badly hurt. They've gone, didn't seem to want to linger around here at all.'
An oil lantern loomed out of the darkness. 'Mr Fitzwilliam. I see you are here.'
Aubrey stood. All his muscles were sore; he felt as if he'd been beaten and wrung like dirty washing. 'Inspector Paul. Are you in charge here?'
Inspector Paul bowed to Caroline. He was well groomed and dry. 'I am Inspector Paul of the Lutetian constabulary. And you are?'
Aubrey waved a hand wearily. 'Miss Caroline Hepworth, this is Inspector Paul. Inspector Paul, Miss Hepworth.'
'She's with us,' George said.
'Of course. But what are you doing here?' Inspector Paul gestured at the last of the retreating Marchmainers. 'They are bad men. You should not be with them.'
'The Marchmaine League? We weren't with them. We were sightseeing with the Albion Friendship Society and happened upon the Marchmainer parade.'
'They were going to the Town Hall,' Inspector Paul said. 'They were very angry. Very dangerous.'
'They didn't look angry. Determined, if anything. Quite disciplined, too.'