‘Of course I’m not Castellano.’ He did his best to bristle with indignation. ‘What sort of unit are you running here? If you don’t know what Castellano looks like, you could be fooled by anyone!’
‘You’re not Castellano?’ Rodolfo’s eyes were steady. ‘What happened to him?’
‘I killed him,’ Aubrey said in his best Captain Green voice. Menacing and authoritative were the keys to getting that character right. ‘He was a careless fool. When the train slowed down before the bridge, it was obvious that he was about to leave. I followed him.’
‘He’s dead? What about his body?’
‘It won’t be found. Not with the spells I used.’
To judge from the hush that fell, this was appropriately demonstrative of a ruthless nature. Rodolfo studied him with what Aubrey hoped was respect. ‘So. And you are?’
‘Call me Mr Black. I represent certain interests. Interests that are old rivals of Castellano.’
‘He mentioned nothing of this.’
‘Did he represent his company as a leading supplier?’ Of what, Aubrey desperately wanted to know. ‘Did he say he could help you?’
‘He did.’
‘Hah. He was lying. He was a fly-by-night operation. He would have taken your money and that would have been the last you saw of him.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Rodolfo thoughtfully fingered the bandolier of bullets that ran across his chest. ‘We have ways of making sure we get what we want.’
And what do you want? ‘My colleagues and I do not like competitors, even ones so puny as Castellano and Co. Especially those that do not deliver. It is bad for business.’
‘So you can supply the weapons that Castellano could not?’
Weapons! ‘Of course. What are you looking for?’
‘Magic. If we are to stop Veltran from destroying itself, we want some of the compressed spells we hear so much about.’ He nodded. ‘Of course, we may use such to continue causing havoc in Holmland as we make our way home.’
This brought various expressions of enthusiasm from the brigands – throaty cheers, assent, and a few voices struck up the Veltranian national anthem, but it petered out and became an argument about the actual words.
Aubrey now was in a different situation from the one he had thought. Instead of facing instant death at the hands of a band of itinerant bandits, he was facing instant death at the hands of some sort of partisan underground political organisation from the Goltans that had relocated into Gallia. Admittedly, the outcome could be the same, but the complexion of this encounter had changed abruptly.
Initially, it had been a case of bluffing his way out of the clutches of outlaws. Now he had to do that – or escape any way he could – and report back to the Albion intelligence agencies about this development. Rogue elements operating out of Gallia and attacking Holmland installations could be just the excuse Holmland needed to advance into Gallian territory, precipitating who knew what response from Gallia. Or would Holmland just assume the attackers were Gallian? The result would be the same. And, naturally, Albion would have to come to the aid of their Continental ally and the whole ghastly business would be on in earnest.
And their expressed desire to stop Veltran from destroying itself? He knew that Veltran, like many of the Goltan States, was torn by factions. Some of these factions had links to Holmland and welcomed stronger ties with the dominant state on the Continent. Not Rodolfo’s crew, from the sounds of it.
Aubrey was in a dangerous situation. Adventures were all well and good, but right at this minute he would have preferred being on the train with a warm cup of cocoa.
‘Compressed spells are dangerous,’ he began.
‘Dangerous?’ Rodolfo said. He rubbed at his forehead. With his sad eyes, Aubrey thought he looked more like a priest than a revolutionary. ‘We’ve grown accustomed to danger, Mr Black. In Veltran, heart of the Goltans, danger is when your friends become your enemies overnight.’
More muttered approval from the shadows. Rodolfo didn’t have the swagger that went along with being a brigand chief, but his followers seemed devoted to him. A reluctant leader, was Aubrey’s summation.
‘I can get my hands on compressed spells,’ Aubrey admitted, seeing the way the negotiation was headed. These people weren’t about to be dissuaded by doubts about safety. More muttering came from the brigand chorus, rather more cheery this time as they considered the possibility of new implements of mayhem. ‘What sort of thing are you after?’
‘Thunderstorms.’ Rodolfo studied him closely. ‘We heard of a compressed weather spell that exploded in Albion, recently. It did much damage.’
‘It flattened a whole building,’ Aubrey said, hiding his surprise. He remembered the destruction of St Olaf’s church hall, one of the series of events leading up to Dr Tremaine’s attempt to turn Trinovant into a living creature. Count Brandt had nearly been killed. Weather magic was awkward – dangerous, difficult to manage, but spectacular.
‘Your people have access to such things?’
‘Oh, certainly,’ Aubrey said, thinking of the resources of the Magisterium, or whatever they’d become. He was sure that Craddock would be able to supply a weather spell if he thought cultivating these people might be useful.
Rodolfo gestured to the giant at the entrance of the cave. ‘We have a list, what we want.’
Aubrey had to keep up appearances. ‘Not so fast,’ he said as a sheaf of tattered paper was thrust on him. ‘We need to discuss payment.’
Rodolfo smiled wryly. ‘Of course. You are a businessman, not a patriot.’ He dragged a stool from underneath a protesting brigand and sat on it himself. He put his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. ‘Tell me what you want. I will protest, of course, but we will eventually reach an understanding. It is the way.’
‘Gold. Deposited in a Helvetica bank.’
Softly, he whispered a spell he’d been rehearsing and snapped his fingers. A bright green flame shot upward from them, an intense jet that reached the rocky ceiling before disappearing, leaving an unexpected smell of mothballs.
Rodolfo didn’t move, but a few startled oaths came from his followers, and some dark mutterings. Rodolfo sighed. ‘Gold in a Helvetica bank? I can arrange that. Now, let’s haggle over price.’
Aubrey shook his head. ‘We never haggle.’ He glanced at the sheaf of papers and he plucked a figure out of the air. ‘Ten thousand pounds.’
‘Done.’ Rodolfo raised his eyebrow sardonically and caught Aubrey’s eye. Immediately Aubrey knew he’d come in too low. It galled him, not because he had anything at stake, but he hated losing even when he had no personal interest.
When Rodolfo gestured and the hospitality phase of the negotiations began, Aubrey was torn. He knew it was dangerous to refuse food and drink offered like this – and he was ravenous after his trek through the woods – but he knew the train was getting further and further away.
But there was no stopping Rodolfo’s band. While their leader brooded, leaning against the wall of the cavern with his arms crossed on his chest, a brace of pheasants roasted on a spit. A cask of wine was broached and soon the cave was full of lusty singing.
Someone pushed a mug of wine on Aubrey. He nodded his thanks but only pretended to drink.
He worked his way around the cavern, weaving among the happy band, making mental notes for his report. The origination of the boxes that most sat on. The calibre and make of the rifles. The makeshift radio equipment at the rear of the cavern. The maps unscrolled on the table. A ragtag bunch they might look, but they were reasonably well equipped, and deadly serious.