The theatre district was one of Aubrey's favourite parts of the city. While no part of Trinovant lacked life, the theatre district had cultivated its own special variety of it. Not only did the swells mix with the common folk, it appealed to Aubrey because it brought together art, magic and technology to create something wonderful – usually six evening shows a week with a matinee on Sunday. The theatre was tradition, it was story made grand, it was low farce, it was a place to find just about every expression of humanity. He loved it.
They rolled down the hill of Eastheath Street, past the Royal Theatre and the many-pillared mock classical frontage of Miller's Showcase. The streets had grown crowded and the cabby had to argue his way through the pedestrians who spilled out onto the street, waves of them promenading from theatre to theatre in search of a good night out.
They turned the corner into Harkness Street, the main theatre row. Proudly taking up the corner was the Orient, which – to Aubrey's eye – had never looked the slightest bit oriental. The cabby saw a gap in the traffic and urged his horse forward, just as Aubrey's gaze lit on the colourful playbill outside the theatre.
He felt as if he'd been hit on the back of the head with an electric eel.
The face of Dr Mordecai Tremaine filled the playbill.
Of all the faces, the ex-Sorcerer Royal's was the last he'd expect to see on a poster advertising a light opera. The man who had plotted to kill the King, who had kidnapped Sir Darius, who had orchestrated the theft of Gallia's sacred Heart of Gold, all in order to plunge the world into war. He'd haunted Aubrey's thoughts ever since he'd disappeared from Albion.
Dr Tremaine was the greatest magician in the world. His knowledge and his bravado had led him to master arcane areas of magic that others wouldn't dare to contemplate. He achieved the difficult with casual arrogance. Hardly paying attention, he juggled spells that would drive others to distraction.
Aubrey knew that Dr Tremaine was one of Albion's greatest threats. So why is he on a theatre poster? he wondered.
He shook himself and twisted in his seat to see more, but a tall woman in a hat the size of an airship chose that moment to pause in front of the Orient and laugh at her companion's witticism. He grabbed George's arm. 'Did you see that?'
'I certainly did. Dreadful hat, that. Fruit and feathers? Appalling.'
Aubrey hissed with impatience. He hammered on the ceiling of the cab. 'Cabby! Cabby!'
The small hatch opened. The driver's eyes flicked downward for an instant, then flicked back to the swirling street ahead. 'What is it, young sir?'
'Stop here! Now!' The driver grimaced. A ten-pound fare was vanishing in front of him, and he knew it. 'Here, sir? Can't, just yet. Hold on a mo . . .'
George leaned forward. 'Don't worry about it, driver. We have to be at the Russell by eight.'
'Eight? We'll have to get a move on, then.'He snapped a whip that looked more decorative than functional, but the cab lurched forward.
'I'll get out,' Aubrey said. He put his hand on the latch.
'You'll miss Caroline,' George said.
Aubrey froze, then let his hand drop. He sat back in his seat and noticed that his knees were trembling. 'At the Orient. The poster. It was Dr Tremaine.'
'Dr Tremaine?' George's eyebrows rose. 'Is that what this is about? I saw the poster at the Orient. That was for Arturo Spinetti, the singer.'
'Spinetti? Singer?'
'He's the talk of the town, come over from Venezia.' George crossed his arms on his chest and looked satisfied.
'You see, Aubrey, there are other sections of the newspaper apart from the politics section.'
'So it wasn't Dr Tremaine.'
George frowned. 'What a bizarre notion. Spinetti doesn't look anything like Tremaine. You know he's probably still in Holmland, constructing plots and generally making mischief. And even if he wasn't, he wouldn't plaster his face about on a poster.'
Aubrey wasn't convinced, and he had a feeling that something was afoot here. The man he'd seen on the poster was a twin of Dr Tremaine. 'Of course.' His headache was sneaking back and he rubbed his temples wearily.
Aubrey tried to tell himself that he'd made a mistake, that was all, half-glimpsing a poster and linking it with the man who lurked in his thoughts.
He subsided, but doubt niggled at him. Dr Tremaine was brilliant, charismatic and utterly ruthless, but he was – above all – unpredictable. Not in the sense of being capricious or careless, but in the way that his motives were impossible for others to decipher. The fate of nations worried him little – his own purposes were paramount. In this world of international turmoil, he was a wild card.
Aubrey knew that Dr Tremaine was an enemy to Albion. But Aubrey was also honest enough to admit – to himself – that he had some admiration for the man. His passionate, sweeping nature, his many personal accomplishments, the gusto and swagger, as if Tremaine were a bolder, grander, more intense version of humanity.
Aubrey could see how Dr Tremaine gathered followers wherever he went. Not that he cared for them, but they were devoted to him. He was a leader, but a completely different sort of leader from Darius Fitzwilliam.
George thumped on the roof of the cab. 'That's the Russell just ahead, cabby.'
'Right you are, sir,' the cabby said with resignation. Aubrey reflected that it was part of a cabby's lot to be told things they already knew, but when they needed accurate directions to be confronted with total ignorance.
'What is this show we're seeing, George?'
'The Great Manfred. Sleight-of-hand artist.'
'A Holmlander?' Aubrey said with some astonishment.
'We're not at war yet. The Great Manfred's been on tour for over a year, the toast of the Continent.'
'I hate sleight of hand,' Aubrey grumbled. 'All their tricks are just done with magic, you know.'
The cab rolled to a halt. George bounded out. 'Ah, that's where you're wrong,' he said when Aubrey joined him on the crowded pavement. He paid the cabby, who favoured him with a grin before driving off. 'The Great Manfred gives a guarantee that every trick he performs is the result of sheer physical dexterity.'
'Impossible.'
'That's the fun of it. He does the impossible, right before your eyes, without any magic at all.'
'If this Manfred –'
'The Great Manfred.'
'If this Great Manfred does all that, I'll be impressed.'
The doors to the theatre were open and a crowd was trying to press through them all at once. 'Wait here,' George said. 'I'll pick up the tickets.'
Aubrey scowled. He stood on the pavement, hands in the pockets of his jacket, and studied the poster, trying not to think about Dr Tremaine.
The Great Manfred was a model Holmlander – tall, well groomed, neat pointed beard, impeccable posture. He wore a dinner jacket that had a decided shortcoming in that cards, doves and coloured scarves seemed to be exploding from its sleeves. Aubrey thought that this would be uncomfortable at best, and markedly inconvenient at worst, but it was what the illustration promised.