‘We should purchase bicycles. A perfect mode of transport for a student. We can cover more ground.’
It was George’s turn to frown. ‘How long are we likely to be out?’
‘Don’t worry, George,’ Caroline said. ‘I’ve already asked our landlady if she could put together a hamper for us.’
‘Really?’ George brightened. ‘I wouldn’t have dared. She looked rather formidable.’
‘She’s an old dear. Worried, of course, about the war. Her husband died in a skirmish thirty years ago but she won’t move. Divodorum is her home, she says, but she wishes they’d finish the earthworks to the north. Oh, and she’s sure that the Mayor’s assistant is in the pay of the Holmlanders.’
Aubrey groped for an appropriate response. ‘You found all that out just now?’
‘It’s not difficult, Aubrey. It’s just a matter of asking a question or two, then nodding sympathetically and listening hard.’
George went out with some of the gold to find a bicycle shop. Caroline took the opportunity to help the landlady in the kitchen – while continuing to gather as much local knowledge as she could.
Which left Aubrey alone, so he took the time to review the mission plans and to make some notes on refinements to the rate of descent spell. Something that would avoid proximity to trees would be a useful addition or, if he couldn’t devise such a thing, a quick treatment for bark rash was his next option.
The bicycles George bought were fresh, new and of the best Gallian make. Aubrey felt quite stylish as he mounted the bright blue model he chose, and quite unobtrusive as the student population of Divodorum had apparently decided, as one, to wake up and take to the streets. Most of them were cyclists of one sort or another. Predominantly the daredevil sort, Aubrey decided as they swooped past, gowns and scarves flying.
Navigator George led the way again, with Aubrey and Caroline close behind. They spent a good two hours meandering through the blessedly flat streets, sizing up and discarding properties for a number of reasons – lack of access, lack of electricity, poor condition, too close to other buildings. Aubrey was determined to delay the inevitable next step of approaching property agents. He thought that young people interested in light industrial premises may be unusual enough to draw attention. Curious Gallians were one thing, but more professionally curious Holmlanders would be bound to follow.
Lunch was in a little park near the university, with many students having the same idea and enjoying the sun. Over good bread, cheese and local ham, they discussed the few possibilities and why they weren’t really good enough anyway. Nearby, others argued philosophy, art and sport.
War seemed a long way away. Aubrey enjoyed the ease of the lunch but was nagged by their lack of success. He wanted to nail down this part of the mission quickly, finding a base. After that would come the more complicated work of readying it for the team of remote sensers. Aubrey had some plans for this phase that might prove demanding, in time, resources and their personal capabilities, plans to go beyond their mission outline. He wanted to impress the Directorate, and doing more than expected was a useful way of going about it, to his mind.
George pointed with a cheese-laden length of crusty bread. ‘I say, isn’t that what’s-his-name?’
A Gallian officer was striding toward them, ignoring the students lounging on the lawn. He bore down on them with intent, and alarm stirred inside Aubrey. He didn’t want a run-in with authorities, not so early in their mission.
‘Fitzwilliam!’ The officer beamed, and continued in good Albionish. ‘You are here!’
Aubrey stood and grasped the Gallian airman’s outstretched hand. ‘Hello, Saltin. What brings you to Divodorum?’
‘You, of course! Ah, M’mselle Hepworth, Doyle – and is that a Divodorum ham?’
‘It certainly is,’ George said, ‘and a jolly fine one it is. Congratulations on the promotion, Saltin. Major Saltin.’
‘Join us, Major,’ Caroline said, catching Aubrey’s eye. ‘Please do.’
‘Plenty for all,’ Aubrey said, divining Caroline’s intent. It was far better for Saltin to sit on the ground for a picnic than to stand in the middle of the park, the centre of attention. With the elaborate uniform of the Gallian airship corps, his thick dark hair and his prominent, well-oiled moustache, he was almost the complete anti-student, the opposite of their carefully studied casualness, artfully arranged assemblies of coats and scarves, and hair that was dishevelled just so.
Major Saltin was a prominent member of the Gallian airship corps. Aubrey and George had saved him from certain death when his dirigible exploded while on a goodwill tour of Albion. Full of Gallian energy and charm, he had become an important connection between the Gallian military and Albion intelligence services.
Major Saltin’s appetite was as good as George’s. He was quick to put together a stylish arrangement of ham, cheese and bread. ‘It was your Commander Tallis,’ he said between bites, ‘who wanted me to meet you, to be your person of liaison. His people communicated with my superiors, who sent the message down the line to me. I flew in this morning.’
Thus explaining the Gallian airship. With some satisfaction, Aubrey ticked that item off his list of things to investigate. ‘Did your superior mention the nature of our mission?’
‘Mission?’ Saltin looked perplexed. ‘I thought I was sent to watch over you while you studied at the university. Sir Darius’s son deserves such assistance.’
‘Not exactly,’ Aubrey said carefully. It appeared as if inter-governmental communications weren’t all they should be – and it didn’t bode well for coordination in future. ‘Our task here is war related.’
Saltin made a face. ‘The war. A farce. It should all be over in a few weeks.’
‘Really?’ George leaned forward, neatly balancing half a hard-boiled egg on a slice of bread.
‘Holmland troops will march back and forward through the Low Countries, enough to show how brave and shiny they are, then they will go home and the negotiations will start.’ Saltin waved a hand. ‘That is what people are saying. All will be calm by Christmas.’
He doesn’t know about Dr Tremaine, Aubrey thought. He took an olive from a jar that Caroline produced from the hamper. ‘Regardless, we have to find a property. A useful property to prepare as a base for some other operatives who will be here soon.’
Saltin thoughtfully munched on his ham and cheese concoction. ‘I’ve visited Divodorum many times. I know people who may be able to help.’
Conversation turned to more mundane matters while the picnic supplies diminished – the weather, the latest fashions, Major Saltin’s plans for his moustache. The day was soft and warm, and for a moment Aubrey was able to forget the pressing of the war, with the laughter of nearby students adding to the drowsy comfort of the park. Without raising himself from his prone position, Aubrey could see rowing boats on the river, where couples drifted, absorbed in each other.
It was a way of life he could grow accustomed to. He brushed an ant off the rug. Caroline was telling Major Saltin about dances in Trinovant, while George gazed about the park and made desultory scrawls in a notebook.
After the picnic was packed up, Saltin walked with them toward the fortress, explaining that the area around it was the sort of light industrial district that might have something suitable. As they neared, a column of military lorries and wagons thundered over one of the medieval bridges, sending up dust that hung in the still, warm air. ‘We’ve been told to avoid the Holmland border when flying,’ Saltin said while they waited for the dust to settle. ‘For the time being. It is a shame, for the Holmlanders are good men, fine pilots.’
‘You used to meet them?’ Aubrey asked. His boots were filthy and he looked at them with dismay.