Aubrey sidled along the pavement until he could see through the glass of the door. ‘Strikingly attractive shop assistants they have in these Fisherberg shops.’
George took his hands out of his pockets. ‘Eh? Let me see.’ He peered through the glass. ‘Look, Aubrey, I always say that language is overrated as a means of communication. I’m sure I can get through to her.’ He peered again and his smile broadened. ‘To them. Come now, mustn’t give up so easily, old man.’
What’s a plan without a hiccup? Aubrey thought as he followed his beaming friend into the refined enclosure of the hat shop.
After that, all went smoothly. George threw himself into the task of engaging the two charming blonde shop assistants with gusto, pointing, sawing at the air with his hands, somehow getting one of them to try on the yellow hat.
The whole performance was so ludicrous and engaging that Aubrey was taken by surprise when their quarry slipped in, glancing in irritation at the bell above the door.
Aubrey was fortunately well hidden behind the door as it swung back and was able to flip the card on the door to ‘Closed’, turn the key in the lock and then stand with his back to the door after the man had taken a few steps into the headgear wonderland.
‘Who are you working for?’ he said in Holmlandish and was pleased at the startled hunching of the man’s shoulders. George and the shop assistants were too busy in their language-free frenzy of miscommunication to even notice.
When the man turned, he’d managed to compose himself. Aubrey automatically noted his thin, clean-shaven features, his pinched mouth, his well-made clothes. Not expensive, but well made nonetheless. ‘I work for someone who has been looking for you.’
Hmm, Aubrey thought, that narrows it down to a few hundred. ‘Why didn’t your employer send me a letter instead of dispatching someone to follow me?’
The man adjusted his cuffs, glanced at the shop assistants, who still hadn’t noticed him, and shrugged. ‘She prefers not to commit herself to writing on this matter.’
She? For an infinitesimal moment, Aubrey wondered if Caroline had been seduced by the cloak and dagger world in which they found themselves, but he immediately rejected this notion. Caroline was far too level-headed to participate in such nonsense.
He mentally riffled through the possibilities and an intriguing prospect presented itself – the mysterious foreigner from the train. ‘I’ve been waiting for her to make contact. You’ll take us to her?’
Another glance. ‘I’m not sure if your friend wants to come.’
‘Let me worry about that.’ Aubrey had a thought. ‘Why were you following me if she wanted me to meet her?’
A small, rather nasty smile. ‘She wanted to know what you’re up to.’
Really? ‘Nothing important, as you’ve seen. George, are you finished?’
With some reluctance, George disengaged himself from his pantomime negotiations. ‘May have to come back here soon,’ he said. ‘Excellent stock they have.’
‘Shall we go?’ their newly acquired guide said.
Aubrey stood back from the door. ‘By all means.’
He took them to an apartment building, five storeys of completely new accommodation all done in a style that combined Holmlandish efficiency with décor that was rich, comfortable and discreet.
When the lift stopped on the fifth floor, their guide paused for a moment before opening the doors. Then he took his time, peering to his left and right before exiting. ‘This way.’
He slowed as they approached the end of the corridor. ‘What’s wrong?’ Aubrey asked.
‘I...’
Raised voices came through the last door on the right. Even though the words were unclear, the anger wasn’t. Two people were shouting – a man and a woman, both trying to talk at once. Then came the sound of breaking glass and the woman screamed.
Their guide stopped. ‘She didn’t pay me for the physical stuff,’ he muttered and took off, barging past Aubrey and George.
Aubrey hardly noticed. His lips were already moving, rehearsing a spell to smash down the door. He fumbled under his shirt for some matches he’d packed in his vest, ready for a quick application of the Law of Intensification. ‘No time for spells now,’ George growled over the crash of splintering furniture. He backed up, lowered his shoulder, and charged the door.
It burst open. Aubrey was right behind his friend but they both pulled up short at the frozen tableau that confronted them.
Tumbled furniture. Broken glassware. A spilled bottle of wine.
And two people Aubrey had seen before. The man was standing behind the woman, an arm around her throat.
Aubrey was immediately taken back to the Transcontinental Express, and the brawl in the compartment. ‘Madame Zelinka,’ he said. ‘Manfred.’
‘Fitzwilliam!’ Manfred said. With his free hand, he flung something at Aubrey and George.
Aubrey felt the magic, saw that it was a compressed spell, pushed George to one side and dived after his friend, hoping that the overturned sofa would provide some protection.
Then the room exploded.
Nineteen
Aubrey waved an arm, trying to find some clear air in the billows of choking plaster. Behind him, the wall that separated the room from the corridor had mostly disappeared, thanks to the shaped magical explosive charge that Manfred had hurled at them.
George rolled over and coughed. ‘Good Lord,’ he said with some reverence after he saw the hole in the wall. ‘Unfriendly greeting, wouldn’t you say, old man?’
The sound of fist on flesh came from the other side of the room and Manfred cursed. Out of the dust cloud, a figure dived over the top of the sofa and landed on top of them.
‘Madame Zelinka!’ Aubrey gasped after a few seconds of desperate untangling.
She rubbed her knuckles and glanced at him, then she attacked the cushions and extracted a large revolver. She peeped over the sofa and quickly pulled the trigger three times. Aubrey stared, open-mouthed.
The revolver hadn’t made a sound.
‘Magical noise suppression, Mr Black,’ she snapped, noticing his astonishment. She squinted toward the far side of the room but the air was still almost opaque. Aubrey lifted his head, cautiously, but could only make out dim shapes of furniture and the more brightly lit rectangles that must have been windows. Then, to add to his flabbergastedness, Madame Zelinka stabbed a finger at George. ‘You have no magic. Blow.’
George blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Quickly. Put your lips together and blow.’ She pointed at the other side of the room. ‘In Guttmann’s direction. Now.’
George did as she bid. His cheeks bulged, and he blew. Immediately, without lowering her revolver, Madame Zelinka barked out a torrent of Achaean syllables which Aubrey, astonished, recognised as components of an intensification spell. When she finished, the room was rocked by a gust of wind. It was strong enough to send books flying from a nearby bookcase and to topple a pair of ornamental potted palms, but it did achieve what Aubrey assumed was Madame Zelinka’s aim. The air was cleared of dust as the wind herded it all out through a broken window. They could see Manfred standing, peering, on the other side of the room.
The shortfall in the plan was that it meant he could see them. With a grin that Aubrey didn’t like at all, backhanded, he slung a glittering ten-mark piece at them.
And the man who Aubrey thought had no magical ability followed it with a short, hard, Chaldean spell.
Magnification, Aubrey thought, and even though he hadn’t heard the spell before he immediately grasped its purpose. Manfred aimed to expand the coin, but such a thing was impossible to maintain for any length of time – which wasn’t important. The coin rapidly grew until it was as big as a dining table. All it had to do was maintain those dimensions for a few seconds and it would crush them like beetles.