Initially, Bourdin had been outraged at three Albionite guests assaulting the cultural attaché, but as the story emerged his attitude changed remarkably. He became, by turns, mortified, apologetic, then outraged again – but this time the outrage was directed at the would-be assassin.
While his subordinates dragged the wounded official to the infirmary for treatment and interrogation, he’d confided that he’d always suspected the cultural attaché of something or other.
‘I didn’t get a chance to examine the weapon before your people took it away,’ Aubrey said, ‘but it was definitely spell-ridden.’
‘A silencing spell?’ George suggested.
‘When he fired, it didn’t make a sound. I don’t know what other spells it might have had.’ And if he hadn’t missed and smashed that mirror instead, no-one outside would have been the wiser. Aubrey shuddered. He’d been so concerned about international dangers that he’d forgotten the peril that came from simply being the son of the Prime Minister.
‘Rather incompetent assassin,’ Elspeth pointed out, ‘missing the PM’s son from that range. I’m glad I didn’t miss him. I’d be a laughing stock.’
She looked remarkably cheerful, unfazed by the whole incident. Aubrey realised then that her breezy demeanour was an asset. She was unflappable. Such an attitude would make her a valuable field operative in a crisis. ‘I haven’t had a chance to thank you,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘It was the least I could do. I led you to him, after all.’
‘It could happen to anyone,’ George said. ‘Big place, this, easy to get confused.’
‘I know, but I keep thinking of how it would look on my file, losing a colleague in my first liaison officer role. I don’t want a reputation for being so careless.’
Aubrey couldn’t help but notice that her gaze flitted across him, not challenging directly as had been her wont. Her words were casual, but lacked her usual touch of impudence.
And was that gleam the beginning of tears in her eyes?
He cleared his throat, in a haphazard effort to distract attention from the blush that was creeping to his cheeks. ‘This man,’ he said to Captain Bourdin. ‘Has he made any admissions?’
Captain Bourdin looked at Aubrey then at Elspeth and Aubrey cringed, internally, when the Gallian smiled and raised an eyebrow. ‘None so far, Fitzwilliam. But it won’t be long before our cultural attaché tells us everything.’
Cultural attaché, Aubrey thought. You may as well tattoo ‘spy’ on his forehead. He pinched the bridge of his nose. A Gallian spy trying to shoot the son of the Albion PM. He wondered how the Holmland intelligence agencies had persuaded him to come over to their side.
‘I’m sure that our authorities will be interested in talking to him,’ Elspeth said. ‘After you’re done, you’ll get in touch with Commander Tallis? I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed to hear about this.’
Captain Bourdin frowned. ‘Overjoyed?’
‘Sorry. It’s Directorate slang. It means “outraged”.’
‘We will provide a thorough and complete report, m’mselle. And I must thank you for your quick action. It would not do for the son of the Prime Minister of Albion to be hurt in the middle of the Gallian Embassy.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Now, do you think we can continue with our assignment? I’m a stickler for following instructions.’
Aubrey couldn’t help smiling. She was nothing if not dedicated. He eyed the bag she clutched. Discreet brown leather, he wondered what other useful equipment it held besides a revolver.
Outside the office, it was still bedlam.
‘Anyone would think a war was on,’ George remarked, hands in his pockets. ‘All this running about, your getting shot and whatnot.’
‘Keep that line up your sleeve, George,’ Aubrey said. ‘Such levity could be useful soon.’
‘Gloomy thought, that,’ George said, ‘but you may be right, old man. You may be right.’
‘Major Morton?’ Aubrey called as they approached the large crater in the middle of the courtyard. It was a good three yards across and twice that long, with cobblestones scattered in all directions around it, and earth flung against the sides of the embassy buildings. The crater was surrounded by waist-high barricades and the area inside was swarming with black-clad Department operatives.
One of them straightened and squinted. He shook his head, said something to one of the other operatives that Aubrey couldn’t make out, then he climbed out of the crater in the courtyard and easily vaulted the barricades. Aubrey fumbled his salute. He still wasn’t used to the action and kept forgetting exactly where the brim of his Department cap was. As a result he nearly knocked himself backward, but Major Morton didn’t appear to notice.
The major had abandoned his cap, and his thinning sandy hair was dishevelled in the brisk breeze that gusted about the courtyard. He was in his forties, Aubrey guessed, medium height, with shrewd eyes and a narrow nose with such tiny nostrils that it looked as if it could hardly supply enough air to keep a person alive.
‘Ah, Fitzwilliam.’ His voice was dry and amused, and his salute was languid. ‘Doyle. Mattingly. I was told you were on your way. Now, any of you had any experience with compression magic?’
George and Elspeth turned to Aubrey with such perfect timing that Major Morton laughed. ‘Only one magic operative in your team, eh?’ Major Morton patted the pockets of his black uniform and eventually found a pipe, which he jammed in his mouth.
Immediately, one of the other operatives called out. ‘Major Morton, sir! No flames, sir!’
Major Morton sighed and glanced over his shoulder. He took the pipe from his mouth. ‘It’s empty!’ He waved it in the air. ‘Good work, though, Maloney!’ He turned back to find Aubrey, George and Elspeth doing their best not to look curious, and failing. ‘It’s part of their job,’ he explained, ‘to remind me not to strike a match when we’re on the job. I forget, sometimes.’
Aubrey wondered how often someone would forget in such a dangerous occupation as bomb disposal. He counted Major Morton’s fingers and, to his relief, found that none were missing.
‘Now,’ the major said, pointing his pipe at Aubrey. ‘Compression spells?’
‘I have had some field experience, sir. A little.’
‘Really? Tell me about it.’
‘Sir?’
‘I want to hear about your experiences, Fitzwilliam. It may be useful.’ He jerked his pipe at the crater. ‘I’d welcome anything that could help us with what we have on our hands here. It could go off at any minute.’
Aubrey glanced at the pit. Five yards away. Not far enough. He could see George doing his best not to back off, but Elspeth actually leaned forward to get a better look. ‘It fell the night before last, is that right, sir?’
Major Morton smiled. ‘Early in the morning, really. About four. We’ve been working on it ever since, when it became apparent that the Gallians didn’t just have an unexploded bomb on their hands, but something magical as well.’
‘Something magical that could go off at any minute,’ George said.
Major Morton shrugged. ‘Or it could go off tomorrow. Or it could turn into a pig and start asking the way to St Swithins Station. Or it could do nothing except make us very, very nervous, like the others these skyfleets have been showering on us these past few weeks.’
Aubrey had been monitoring the spectacular skyfleets, battleships formed of cloud stuff, since Dr Tremaine had sent one after him last year. They had been appearing at irregular intervals all over Albion, but obviously coming from the Continent. They hadn’t done anything except sow panic, so this was a new and unwelcome development. The skyfleets had been excellent at spreading confusion and fear, a sense of imminent dread that stopped the normal commerce of everyday living any time a shadow appeared in the sky.