Baron von Grolman. The barrel-chested, bald industrialist studied the clipboard and pulled at a lip. Then, startlingly, he lifted his head and smiled expansively, like a man who has just seen a long-lost friend.
A white burst of radiance filled the loading area. It made Aubrey blink, and at first he thought it was a spell of some kind, then he caught the familiar stink of flash powder. Baron von Grolman scowled at his clipboard while the photographer slid another plate into his camera.
Aubrey had difficulty in coming to terms with how bizarre he found the whole scene. The soldiers who were swarming about the loading bay treated the baron with respect but that was only half the picture. They were on best behaviour, snapping out salutes and making sure that all commands were carried out with gusto as they organised shambling, pliant, wounded infantrymen. While this was carried out under the watchful eye of Baron von Grolman, a photographer was regularly interrupting proceedings to snap pictures. He was a cheerful young chap, the only civilian Aubrey had so far seen in the complex, and he had no hesitation in calling for soldiers – or the baron himself – to stop and adopt a pose suitable for his next photograph.
It was like being at a wedding, or an important birthday party, instead of in a factory involved in secret military work.
An opportunity is an opportunity, Aubrey thought. The photographer arranged the baron so he appeared to be joking with one of the lorry drivers. When the flash went off, Aubrey added a subtle intensifying spell. The result was blinding. The baron swore, and shouts and cries came from the soldiers nearby. The photographer was immediately apologetic. In the confusion, Aubrey dragged George behind the nearest lorry. Within seconds, they emerged, but now they looked smart and clean in the uniform of Holmland lieutenants. No bandages, nothing to associate them with the entranced cargo.
Carefully, Aubrey reached into the cabin of the rearmost lorry. He pulled out a sheaf of papers and a lantern. He gave the lantern to George and with the papers in his hands they looked as if they had a purpose. It didn’t matter that George was carrying a lantern in the middle of the day; carrying something made it less likely they’d be questioned than if they were empty-handed.
Aubrey glanced at the papers. It didn’t really matter what they were, but he was intrigued to see that he’d picked up invoices, shipping manifests and delivery dockets, with duplicates in best military fashion. All of them confirmed that the lorry had been in Fisherberg – but its cargo had come from the battlelines on the border with Muscovia. Each of the unfortunate wounded had been transported through Fisherberg for ‘treatment’, before being sent on to Stalsfrieden.
While in Fisherberg, Aubrey thought, they’ve been specially prepared by putting them into this trance, thanks to Dr Tremaine’s spells at a distance.
It was both efficient and ghastly, with the typical Tremaine indifference to suffering.
The soldiers in charge were obviously accustomed to dealing with the entranced wounded. They barely had to speak. Aubrey and George followed at the rear, Aubrey making great show of counting heads as they went, while wooden batons were used sparingly, guiding the wounded out of the loading bay, across a short gravelled area and into the heart of the complex: the factory itself.
Aubrey was startled. He’d been expecting they’d be taken to an infirmary faculty, or a hospital, or some sort of medical facility. This was industry on a grand scale. Through the battering noise, he could smell hot metal and the distinctive tang of ozone. Looking upward, Aubrey could make out exposed beams and girders, skylights, caged electric lights, chains and gantries.
The vast space was full of machinery – great blocky shapes like enormous cabinets – cabling, chains and conduits hanging from gantries overhead, humming conveyor belts, clanking shuttles and hoppers. Iron walkways ran around the perimeter, high up, for maintenance and supervision. Aubrey’s eye immediately went to what looked like an office or control room, up in the heights. Well lit in the industrial gloom, it would provide the perfect bird’s-eye view of whatever was going on in the infernal place.
It was an overwhelming place. Noise and stench. Hammering, crackling, hissing and pounding. Ozone, burnt rubber, hot metal and the cloying, nauseating smell of organic waste.
All of this assaulted him, but Aubrey also became aware that whatever process was going on in the cavernous building, it incorporated powerful magic.
The magic roared at him as they stood there, actually making him squint, as if he were facing a gritty wind. Then it slackened and played on his hearing, tickling with unkind fingers made of ice and bitterness.
The magic was not constant. It ebbed and veered, and was hard to grasp.
Aubrey took in as much of the surroundings as he could, already preparing for a report. Soldiers hurried past, disappearing through gaps in the massive pipes, or mounting the walkways up high. Moving with less haste and more deliberation, however, were whitecoated civilians. Their coats didn’t cover uniforms, just the rumpled suits and askew ties Aubrey had come to associate with academics or theoreticians. While they may have been barbers on a field trip, Aubrey was prepared to wager that they were more likely to be either scientists or magical researchers. Or perhaps both, he thought as he noted how each of the white coats was accompanied by a fully-armed uniformed soldier.
Subtly, knowing that George would follow his lead, Aubrey lingered as the wounded were led away into the factory. He waited for a pair of white coats to walk past, then consulted his papers, shaking his head in disgust. He was pleased that his disguising spell was working well, for he’d added an extra variable based on the Law of Familiarity, where scrutiny can be manipulated to become acceptance, based on plausible appearance. It was a delicate application because the effect had to be subtle. Trying to apply it to someone or something that was egregiously out of place was doomed to failure. Therefore, as well as looking like Holmland soldiers, the more Aubrey and George could behave like them the more chance of their presence going unremarked.
The weight of the revolver rubbed just under his armpit. Some may have found it reassuring; Aubrey found it disconcerting. A revolver tended to imply shooting people, something he wasn’t altogether in favour of. As an option, he had it near the bottom of his list, just above ‘being shot’.
Aubrey and George moved away from the entrance and stood with their backs to a bright red fire alarm. George hung his lantern from a hook on the wall, crossed his arms on his chest and looked sidelong at Aubrey. ‘I’m hoping that you’ve worked out a way to find Sophie and Caroline.’
A frenzied din hammered from the depths of the factory. The sound of metal on metal was deafening.
‘An aspect of the Law of Contiguity would appear to be best.’
‘I’m glad. Sooner rather than later would be excellent.’
‘That’s the problem. I’d like to use the Law of Contiguity, but I’d need something belonging to either Caroline or Sophie. Something that has been in close contact with either of them.’
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ George reached under his jacket, fumbled about for a minute, then brought out a fine silver ring. ‘Here. It’s Sophie’s.’
Aubrey stared at the ring in his palm. ‘She gave it to you?’
‘A few days ago, after we slogged through that marsh. It wouldn’t fit on my finger, and we had a laugh about that, so I strung it on a shoelace.’
‘A shoelace.’
‘Needs be, old man. I’ll organise something more suitable when we’re home.’
The unspoken provisos and conditions that went with that declaration hovered about them, but Aubrey was thinking more about how lucky George was to have such a token. He readily admitted to being envious of his friend, but happy for him at the same time. With the only ring Caroline wore, if she gave it to him he’d probably slice his own finger off.