‘I can only think of one person who could do something like that,’ Aubrey said.
‘Indeed. And anything that Dr Tremaine is interested in interests us.’
‘Have you made any progress?’
‘The current thinking is that the Rashid Stone may lead us to deciphering this script.’ He pointed at the lowest section of the artefact. ‘If our experts are right, it may shed some light on the actual relationship between magic, language and human consciousness itself.’
Aubrey had had thoughts along the same lines, but hadn’t had a chance to pursue them. ‘Fundamental stuff.’
‘Correct. It’s entirely possible that someone who can bring these areas together in a unified theory...’ Craddock’s calm slipped for a moment and Aubrey was shocked to see something that – in another man – would be called fear. ‘Well, such a person could control magic itself.’
After Craddock escorted him back to the dormitory, with a blunt word or two about remaining there, sleep refused to come as Aubrey’s mind whirred. He lay on his bed in the dark while a thousand thoughts tumbled through his head.
The connection between magic, language and human consciousness was the great unsolved riddle of the age, a riddle that was consuming the entire attention of some of the finest magical minds of this generation. If solved, it promised to open whole new fields of endeavour and to lead to magical applications of untold power.
When a shadowy figure was suspected as being behind mysterious events, Aubrey’s first, second and third choices were Dr Tremaine. Professor Mansfield had promised to appear at the Fisherberg symposium when she disappeared. Aubrey had been shocked to learn that Dr Tremaine was actually the organiser of this event – for his own ends, naturally. In the uproar over the revelation of Prince Albert’s claim to the vacant throne of Gallia, things like Professor Mansfield’s disappearance were overlooked, of small consequence in the days following the bombshell.
Aubrey was now starting to see it as another of Dr Tremaine’s schemes within schemes, and the idea of Dr Tremaine controlling magic was a nightmare made real.
He couldn’t wait to get home to look at the mysterious stone fragments that had come into his possession – fragments that Professor Mansfield had been sure could help unravel the puzzle of the Rashid Stone. He’d promised himself that he’d give the fragments to the Department after he’d hammered out some new probing spells that he’d been working on but, with one thing and another, he hadn’t quite managed it.
One thing and another. He grimaced. They always get in the way.
The next morning, as he sat in one of the Department’s demonstration laboratories, Aubrey went to stifle a yawn, only to feel another coming hard on its heels, so that his head almost burst with the effort. Through tears, he was glad he was sitting at the back, as he was sure his face had turned an alarming shade of red.
The demonstration laboratory held perhaps thirty or forty people, the rows of seats sloping precipitously to provide a good view of the bench at the front. Commander Craddock stood behind it while one of the more anonymous operatives unloaded glassware and batteries from a trolley.
‘Good morning,’ Craddock said. He was wearing black, as usual, but not his typical long coat and wide-brimmed hat. His white-haired head was bare, and he wore a short, black jacket and a high-collared black shirt. And a tie, black. ‘I hope you all slept well. You’ll need to be in top form today.’
Aubrey winced, even though Craddock’s gaze didn’t linger on him. He ducked his head as another jaw-cracking yawn took hold of him, and pretended to fumble around in his satchel. When he was himself again, he looked up to meet Craddock’s gaze square on. ‘Now, let us consider the work of Lanka Ravi.’
Aubrey’s weariness fell away from him. Lanka Ravi. Aubrey had been lucky enough to catch one of the great theoretician’s controversial lectures at Greythorn University. He’d been staggered by the insights the young man presented. One after another, Ravi had elucidated new ways of looking at fundamental laws, connections between areas of magic considered incompatible, conjectures about possible future applications for magic. Lanka Ravi’s intellect was dazzling, and Aubrey had been shocked to hear of Ravi’s death while on his way back to his home on the sub-continent. When Aubrey heard the news, he had a profound sense of loss, an awareness of all that would not be done because Lanka Ravi had passed away before his time.
Aubrey rubbed his hands together, then he quickly opened his notebook. He didn’t want to miss anything. Craddock was a fine magician and a deep thinker. If Lanka Ravi’s work was of interest to him – and the Department – Aubrey was keen to find out why.
Before Craddock could begin, however, the door to his right opened. A hesitant operative slipped in and was cornered by Craddock’s assistant. They had a hurried, hushed exchange. Craddock had stopped speaking as soon as the door moved. He didn’t turn; he simply stood, waiting, his face impassive, and Aubrey knew that something was afoot – and it may also explain why the head of the Magic Department was occupying himself with the relatively minor task of taking care of irregulars. This way, Craddock ensured he was at headquarters and ready to respond.
To what?
In the face of the assistant’s insistence, the intruder hesitated, then handed over an envelope. The assistant didn’t look pleased, but took it to Commander Craddock while the intruder left, closing the door with a palpable expression of relief.
With a minute tightening around his eyes, Craddock took the envelope from his assistant. Then he raised an eyebrow and looked up. ‘Fitzwilliam.’
Aubrey was immediately the focus of attention of all the irregulars.
‘It’s for you,’ Craddock continued, not without some satisfaction at Aubrey’s discomfort. ‘It’s marked “Urgent”.’
The police presence at No. 4 Credence Lane had increased, Aubrey noted as he was admitted to the Prime Minister’s offices. A sign of the times.
He didn’t recognise any of the constables on duty, and their business-like demeanour as they scrutinised him discouraged any light conversation. He was ushered to a waiting room near the main stairs. There, under the watchful eye of the constables who popped in every few minutes, he waited. And waited. And waited.
So much for urgency, he thought after the first hour went by, dragging its feet so much it would have left gouges in concrete.
The sole window of the waiting room looked out on a deserted courtyard that featured a pear tree in bloom. Two remarkably uninteresting paintings hung on the walls. Aubrey had his choice of a still life with fruit or a thatched country cottage with – no doubt – a horde of rosy-cheeked children inside. After an hour or so of staring at them, they began to blur together and he had visions of rosy-cheeked bananas inside a thatched cottage, which gave him a start.
Aubrey tried not to let his irritation grow. Having a role in the Security Intelligence Directorate – no matter how peripheral – was good for his ego. Magic was one area where his father hadn’t gone before him and any successes were indisputably his own. Being dragged away from it was hard to take, despite the urgency of the summons. Being ignored on top of it was even more nettling.
Aubrey did his best to divert himself from such childish thoughts. He wondered about the hushed tension that permeated the building. He’d visited numerous times since his father had regained the Prime Ministership, and he understood that the offices had never exactly been a leisurely place, but the seriousness on the faces of those who hurried past the open doorway was a sign that something was amiss. Aubrey idly considered possibilities. Someone in the Opposition caught embezzling party funds? Or, worse, someone in Sir Darius’s own Progressive Party up to no good? His father had hinted that he was less than impressed with some of the backbenchers. Such had been the Progressives’ election success that some had gained seats unexpectedly – and their quality was not all it should be.