Eventually, the Chancellor signalled for quiet, then went on. ‘But enough of such things. This symposium is about more than the finest industries in the world – it is about the speakers.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘And I have much pleasure in introducing a special speaker, a gifted young man whose talents lie in two distinct areas. His advances in industrial magic led to my announcement, and his historical research has resulted in his being the recipient of the inaugural Chancellor’s Prize. With his prize-winning essay: Mr Otto Kiefer.’
Amid polite applause, Kiefer stumbled onto the stage. At first, he looked both bewildered and angry, gaping at the other side of the stage in the direction Dr Tremaine had gone. Then he seemed to remember where he was. He stared at the audience, then at the papers he clutched in his hands. The Chancellor took him by the hand and shook it in a firm and masculine manner, muttering some encouraging words. Kiefer was instantly wide-eyed, being so close to the leader of his nation. Gradually, he straightened and grinned sheepishly. Neumann smiled tolerantly, warmly, and swept a wide hand to beckon Kiefer to the lectern. Once Kiefer was there, Neumann moved to the edge of the stage. He stood for a moment and beamed, as if Kiefer were a pet dog he’d trained to perform a difficult trick, then he marched off stage – in the same direction Dr Tremaine had exited.
Aubrey braced himself, as if he were sailing into a hurricane, ready for what Kiefer had in store.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ Kiefer’s voice was shrill with tension. Aubrey wondered if it was simply stage nerves or whether it was foreknowledge of what was to come. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he repeated, ‘my paper is titled: “Some Genealogical Findings on the Lineage of Some of Our Royal Families”.’
Aubrey had been hoping that he’d leaped to the wrong conclusion about Kiefer’s research, but the title of his essay let him know that he was right – horribly right. Kiefer was about to drop a bombshell that would reverberate across the Continent all the way to Lutetia and then across the channel to Albion itself.
Kiefer pushed his spectacles back on his nose. He looked at his notes, then at the audience. He blanched a little at the polite attention that awaited him from Holmland’s rich and powerful, and dropped his gaze back to his notes, where it remained as if nailed.
‘As is well known,’ he began, ‘the throne of Gallia has been vacant for over a century, ever since the events of the Gallian Revolution.’
Aubrey’s fears were about to be realised.
Much of Kiefer’s speech was hesitant, full of names and relationships, thickly littered with academic terms like ‘consanguinity’ and ‘morganatic marriage’, which strained Aubrey’s Holmlandish. Painstakingly, Kiefer traced branches of family tree after family tree, pointing out where names were similar or repeated, which was common, the Gallian aristocracy having a profound lack of imagination when it came to names.
The audience had descended into a diplomatic state of boredom, where impatience was expressed by shuffling of feet, uncreasing and creasing of programs, coughing that was immediately infectious. It was only after nearly half an hour of speaking that Kiefer stopped, coughed himself, then looked up. After an instant’s faltering when he saw the audience looking back at him, he went on.
‘With the extinguishment of the Gallian royal family in 1793 it was assumed that no legitimate claim to the throne could be found. But new evidence has recently come to light which suggests an astonishing development.’
The shuffling in the audience immediately stopped. Programs were forgotten. Respiratory complaints underwent miraculous recoveries. This was something interesting. Rumours of missing heirs to the Gallian throne had kept people entertained for a hundred years or more, but they were always in the realm of the fairytale. Something concrete, however, would be delicious.
Kiefer dropped to his notes again, but this time he had the attention of the entire audience. After another fifteen minutes pursuing a sidetrack into minor Gallian peers, he launched, without warning, into an examination of the Albion royal line.
A murmur hurried around the hall. Aubrey saw Bertie stiffen and he wished he could see his friend’s face.
Lady Rose leaned over. ‘Do you know anything about this?’ she whispered.
Aubrey made a half-shrug, half-wave that he hoped was inconclusive. He glanced at his mother to see that she knew exactly what he was doing. ‘I’ll expect a full account later,’ her expression said.
As Kiefer blundered on, closer and closer to his conclusion, the auditorium was so full of bated breaths that Aubrey had genuine fears the hall would explode when everyone exhaled again.
He began to experience a dreadful sense of inevitability, the inexorable approach of a disaster. It was like watching someone trying to walk across a frozen lake, knowing that each step was taking him closer to his doom.
Kiefer, however, was mistaking the tension in the hall for acclaim. He began to look up more frequently, and he even started adding jaunty gestures of emphasis, abandoning the death-grip he’d had on the lectern.
Oh, don’t smile, Aubrey thought when Kiefer peered outward again, but his silent plea went unanswered. Kiefer attempted a raffish grin, which slid into a grimace before finally coming across as a demented smirk.
Aubrey could see that they were on the downhill slope now. He thought of trying to stop Kiefer by casting a spell, then he looked around and he realised how well Dr Tremaine had set up this manoeuvre. Aubrey couldn’t interrupt the ceremony. Any attempt to do so, here, in the heart of Holmland, would be an undeniably hostile act. And by the son of the Albion Prime Minister? That way lay diplomatic horror.
Aubrey could almost imagine the whistling sound as the bombshell came closer and closer. Kiefer paused, pursed his lips and, with a confidence hitherto unseen, gazed over the audience. For a moment, he was a scholar, a holder of incontrovertible evidence, imbued with authority and gravitas far beyond his years. It was his moment, and he savoured it.
‘And so,’ he said gravely, ‘it is indisputable that the late Count de Vere of Carleon was the rightful King of Gallia.’ Kiefer gestured. ‘As he died with no brothers, and only one daughter, that means his grandson, Prince Albert here, is the heir to that throne as well as that of Albion.’
The bombshell exploded and, to Aubrey, it sounded like the laughter of Dr Mordecai Tremaine.
Thirty
A week after the extraordinary events of the symposium opening, a launch pulled alongside the HMS Invulnerable with commendable sureness, given the choppy sea. Aubrey watched from the bridge as his father came onto deck looking neat and trim. He took his time to greet the captain and his officers, even though it was apparent to Aubrey that he’d rather be on his way to meeting Lady Rose. It was subtle – the duration of the handclasp, a touching of his hand to the brim of his hat – but Aubrey knew his father well. He was sure that every man on the Invulnerable would remember the Prime Minister’s visit and how he talked with them about their particular duty.
‘I’m surprised he could get away,’ George said. His sandy hair ruffled in the wind as they walked down the passageway from where the captain had let them watch their arrival into Imworth harbour.
‘It would take more than chaos in Gallia to keep him away,’ Aubrey said. Almost unconsciously, he touched his chest – where once the Beccaria Cage had nestled – and then put his hand to his pocket to feel the comforting weight of his pocket watch. He was glad to have it back, even if its return simply meant it was more difficult to fathom Dr Tremaine and his motives.