'I'd be happy to do it.' This was more to Aubrey's liking. His father was trusting him, explicitly, with a mission.
'Don't be so hasty. I've only told you part of the issue.' Sir Darius rubbed his hands together. 'Despite our public pronouncements, Gallia is in some turmoil. The alliance with Albion is being questioned within the Giraud government, fears about Holmland aggression are growing, and – just to make matters worse – there is a movement afoot in the Gallian province of Marchmaine to secede and form its own nation.' He scowled. 'They could have chosen a better time for such a thing.'
Aubrey pictured the map of the Continent. Marchmaine was directly across the channel from Albion. Rich and fertile, it stretched across the entire north of Gallia, sitting like a flat cap on top of the country. A fit hiker could land a boat on the shore of the channel and walk right across the gently rolling countryside until he reached the border of –
'Holmland,' Aubrey said. 'You think it's encouraging this movement.'
'Indeed. If Marchmaine becomes independent, it would have no alliance with Albion. And if one were particularly suspicious, one could imagine that the entire secessionist movement was a plot by Holmland to install pro-Holmland leaders in this new state, with the effect of providing Holmland with direct access to the channel.'
'And an easy crossing point for invading Albion. If it comes to war.'
'Quite.'
Aubrey and his father shared a look that said they both knew war was inevitable, that they wished it weren't so, and that they didn't want to mention it out loud just in case this made it happen – even though they both knew such superstitions were childish.
'Of course,' Sir Darius said, 'I don't have to tell you how stiff-necked the Gallians can get.'
'Ah. So that means that you'd like me to find the dirigible saboteurs and uncover the Holmland plot to instigate a sovereign state in Marchmaine, all without letting the Gallian authorities know what I'm up to?'
'More or less.'
'Delighted.'
His father held up a finger. 'One thing. Is George going with you?'
'Yes.'
'Good, good. I was going to insist that he go along. He seems to be useful for tempering some of your excesses. You can apprise him of the matters I've told you.'
WHEN HE LEFT THE CONSERVATORY, AUBREY FOUND IT HARD to stop smiling. The confidence his father showed was gratifying. Of course, combining this mission with requests from his mother, his grandmother and the heir to the throne was going to be a challenge, but Aubrey saw challenges as most people saw stepping stones – a way to get somewhere.
His smile fell from his face. He remembered his own, personal reason for journeying to Lutetia. His research into finding a solution for his unstable state had reached an impasse. He'd scoured libraries, corresponded with scholars (always in guarded, hypothetical terms) and conducted careful experiments testing new applications of magical laws, but nothing had yielded a complete remedy.
It was unsatisfactory, especially since he had the impression that his condition was deteriorating. It wasn't simply the tiredness he'd felt since exerting himself to save Saltin. He had a vague malaise, a deep-seated feeling that something wasn't right.
Ominously, he'd also lost his appetite. It had happened to him before. After the foolhardy experiment that had torn his soul loose from his body, he'd managed to reunite them – but not perfectly. The connection had deteriorated, and as it did, his bodily state grew worse. Tiredness and loss of appetite were warning signs, a reminder that his physical condition wasn't what it should be. In the past he'd been able to rest and steady himself, restoring his balance. Through spells and willpower he'd been able to keep the true death at bay – but it hovered, always there, waiting for him if his hold should slip.
Aubrey had heard that the Faculty of Magic at the University of Lutetia had fallen on hard times. It was apparently a shadow of its glory days, when it had attracted magicians from Albion and all over the Continent. He had hopes, though, that he could find someone there who could offer help or insight into the state of half-life, half-death in which he was trapped. He wanted a remedy, something more permanent than what he'd been able to cobble together.
AUBREY FOUND GEORGE ALONE IN THE FRONT DRAWING room. He was surrounded by peacock plumes nodding from a tall ochre vase and he was absorbed in reading the newspaper. Aubrey outlined the discussions he'd had, to George's growing amusement.
'I can't see what's so funny,' Aubrey concluded. 'I was looking forward to a relaxing holiday and now it looks as if it's going to be filled up with traipsing all over Lutetia for other people.'
'My thoughts exactly, old man. After this holiday, it seems you're going to need a holiday.'
Three
THE CAB STOPPED AND AUBREY PEERED UP AT WHAT would be their residence for their Lutetian holiday. George leaned over and stared. 'Looks as if we're not in Albion any more, old man.'
It was one of a row of impressive five-storey apartment buildings just north of the Sequane River, not far from the centre of the city. The narrow street and equally tall row of buildings on the other side made Aubrey feel as if he was at the bottom of a canyon – albeit an architecturally splendid one. Their holiday residence was on a crossroad, so the western windows overlooked the intersection below.
By the time Aubrey had alighted and joined George on the pavement, the driver had manhandled the trunks and boxes from the cab. It was done with some speed and not much care. Aubrey paid and offered a few Gallian pleasantries, but the driver didn't linger. He sprang back into his seat, urging his nag off with a curse and a flick of his whip.
George scowled. 'Ah, visit lovely Gallia and see the friendly folk mistreat their animals.'
George's large build disguised his soft-heartedness. Aubrey knew his friend loved animals and hated to see them being treated poorly. 'Let's see if we can't get some help with these things,' he suggested and used the bunch-of-grapes doorknocker.
The door opened. A tall, grey-haired woman stared down at them as if she'd been walking on the beach and found something unpleasant. Aubrey thought that she had once been beautiful, but had now passed through that into something more intriguing.
Aubrey doffed his hat and greeted her in his best Gallian. She nodded. 'Quite good, for an Albionite,' she said in perfect Albionish, 'but please use your own language. I like to practise.'
Aubrey nodded, a little disappointed. 'I'm Aubrey Fitzwilliam. This is George Doyle. Rooms have been organised for us?'
'Fitzwilliam. Doyle.' The grey-haired woman repeated the words slowly. Aubrey saw her studying them carefully: two young men, one slight and dark-eyed, one large, red-cheeked and sandy-haired. 'Yes. You have rooms.'
'Er, can you show us to them?' George asked. 'Although we could just stand here and admire the windows, if you point them out to us.'