The handful of other talented recruits had dwindled as the day went on, winnowed out by the increasingly difficult spells set for them. Having reached a level of competence, they were directed to intensive training in their speciality.
Aubrey caught up with all of them over the subsequent few days, though, for at the end of the first day of magical training – Aubrey having performed all tasks with ease – the grim faces consulted, threw their hands up in the air, and directed Aubrey to participate in each of the specialised intensive magical training sessions.
Most were straightforward and almost painfully practical, at least for people who may have to perform magic in battle situations – covert lighting, sound deadening, distraction techniques, spells both offensive and defensive. A few were wrinkles on techniques Aubrey knew well, variations interesting enough to fascinate him and leave him disappointed when he had to move on to the next. Some were completely new applications, profoundly practical again, like the panoply of spells useful for securing a perimeter from intrusion, both physical and magical. Aubrey was intrigued and wanted to spend more time investigating what he suspected was a connection between these spells and the magical neutralising spells he’d been working with.
These sessions were a relief in many ways. A relief from the mud, a relief from the burning pain of tired muscles, but most of all, a relief from the shouting.
The best set of lungs belonged to Sergeant Wallace, the non-commissioned officer in charge of Aubrey’s platoon of twenty recruits. Sergeant Wallace was the NCO who roused them in the morning – Aubrey only had to have his bed tipped over once before he understood that now meant now – and who chivvied them about from parade ground to classroom to mess hall. Aubrey thought that the sergeant must have some sort of magically enhanced voice box, with the amount of roaring he did, only relaxing when he handed over to someone who took the platoon on specialised instruction, accompanied by more shouting.
Aubrey had never thought it possible to be shouted to sleep, but when Sergeant Wallace’s nightly ‘Lights off in one, two, three, NOW!’ rang from the rafters, he was out like a light.
Right now, however, he had about two seconds to drag himself out of bed before Sergeant Wallace exercised his bed-tipping muscles.
Once the platoon was de-bedded and dressed, they stood in front of their bunks, quivering.
‘Right!’ Sergeant Wallace bellowed in a conversational manner. ‘Although you are far from ready for anything apart from patrolling lonely stretches of coastline, you are apparently going to be let loose on the enemy. God help them. And us.’ Hands clasped behind his back, he shook his head in pity. ‘You have endured four weeks unlike any you’ve ever had before, and I want you to remember one thing: don’t disgrace yourself. That’s all. Don’t disgrace yourself. Now, mess hall in ten minutes. Move it!’
In the clatter and bustle of the mess hall, Aubrey found a corner. While he stoked himself with porridge, he considered Sergeant Wallace’s announcement.
His training had been hard, no doubt about that. Underneath the aches and pains, his muscles were hardening and he was sure that if he kept up a modicum of exercise he’d enjoy the fitness and it would do him good in the long run.
The other seats at the table began to fill. Aubrey exchanged nods and greetings, but everyone appeared to share the same sombre, thoughtful mood. The end of training meant, as Sergeant Wallace put it, being let loose. And being let loose in a war situation was enough to give anyone pause over their porridge.
Craddock’s earlier mentioning of special units had been vague and imprecise. Working behind enemy lines? What exactly did that mean? After the training, Aubrey was starting to have some idea. With the emphasis on such dangerous skills as explosives and firearms, he was heading into dangerous territory.
Aubrey was prepared to admit that he favoured not dying over dying. But he also hoped that he was brave enough not to shy away from danger when he was needed to do the right thing. He couldn’t shirk. He would put himself in harm’s way, if it meant helping bring the war to a speedy end.
Being the sort of person he was, he reminded himself to minimise risks wherever he could. Be cautious, he told himself, think things through, look for the unexpected, be prepared, stay alert.
He wished George and Caroline were here. Together, they covered all of those things. Apart, he felt lessened – and more exposed.
He poked at his porridge and was wistful. He missed his friends. He was sure George would be all right, as he had the happy knack of falling on his feet in most circumstances. He was probably neatly ensconced in a propaganda unit, churning out story after story about the cheerful recruits bravely preparing to defend king and country.
And Caroline? Here Aubrey’s wistfulness was mixed with guilt. He would have to do something about his interrupted mission. Sooner, rather than later.
A tray plonked on the table, right opposite Aubrey. Woodberry, familiar to Aubrey from the irregulars tour, looked surprisingly cheerful and well rested. ‘Morning, Fitzwilliam. Exciting, isn’t it?’
Aubrey pushed his porridge bowl aside. ‘That’s one way of putting it. “Exhausting” is another, and probably more accurate. Then there’s “painful”, which is also remarkably apposite.’
Woodberry was a scrambled eggs man. He showered them with salt before plunging in. ‘Painful for some. The most painful thing for me was this nasty paper cut.’ He held up his forefinger, wrapped in a neat, white bandage.
‘Mind it doesn’t get infected,’ Aubrey said. ‘I knew a professor who lost an arm because of an infected paper cut.’
Woodberry’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’
‘Certainly.’ Aubrey enjoyed the harmless ragging, but Woodberry’s comments only emphasised to him that Craddock had different things in mind for different people. Woodberry was bound for a job in Darnleigh House, Aubrey was sure. Not a field operative, not someone for the special units. One session on the firing range was enough to convince Aubrey of that. Woodberry’s skills were firmly in areas other than pointing and shooting dangerous things like rifles. While he didn’t actually hit anyone, it was only due to the instructor’s quick reactions in dropping to the ground and to the fortuitous log that happened to be between the instructor and Woodberry’s wild round.
Woodberry frowned, glanced at his finger, then pointed his fork at Aubrey. ‘Have you heard? They’re bombing Trinovant.’
Aubrey started guiltily. Training had been so intense that he’d felt cut off, insulated from the world, and most particularly the war. Woodberry had been training in homeland liaison and was much more aware of what was going on. ‘Already. Much damage?’
‘Not so far. Plenty of panic, though. When those airships come over, it’s a riot in the streets.’
‘Which is probably as useful as actual damage.’ Aubrey drummed his fingers on the table and tried to divide his anxious thoughts between worrying about Caroline, George, his parents and everyone else he knew. Bombs falling on Albion? This was war made real. He hoped this would shock the doubters, those who thought that war was either nonsense or a jolly lark.
After breakfast, the recruits were directed – via concerted shouting – to the main hall for the first time since their initial meeting. Aubrey was uneasy, the more so when the hall began to fill with unfamiliar faces, people in uniforms other than the discreet black of the Department.
These strangers looked more like traditional army troopers in their khaki dress and, unlike the novice Department operatives, they all looked brimming with fitness and vigour. None of them was older than thirty, apart from their sergeants, who shared the same shouting prowess as the Magic Department instructors. Aubrey imagined them all catching up at a convention, sharing shouting techniques, and hoped that it was held well away from built-up areas.