Word of Honour

Professor Bromhead dropped his hands. 'See? As soon as I stepped into this region of the stage, my magic failed, nullified by these devices. It's a sharply delineated area, determined by the placement of the boxes. Magic suppression works.'

The Great Manfred nodded. 'So you would guarantee that I can use no magic while on this stage?'

'I will. And better than that. I'll sit off in the wings and monitor for magic use each night of your show. If there's even a sniff, I'll feel it and raise a hue and cry.'

'Professor, I thank you.'

Aubrey applauded heartily as the professor left the stage. If Professor Bromhead was prepared to give his word on the truthfulness of the performance, it was good enough for him.

After that, the Great Manfred proceeded to amaze.

Aubrey was at first interested, then impressed and finally astounded. Rings linked and unlinked, ropes of colourful scarves came from nowhere, and endless numbers of eggs came from the Great Manfred's mouth.

The performer's skills were stunning. Aubrey squinted, tilted his head from side to side, but eventually had to admit to himself that he had no idea how the Holmlander was doing it.

AFTERWARDS, STANDING ON THE CROWDED PAVEMENT outside the theatre, Aubrey could barely keep still. 'Incredible,' he repeated. 'Simply incredible.'

'He was very polished,' Caroline said. 'Not demonstrative, but certainly polished.'

'Oh, he was good, but I was talking about the magic suppressors. They're extraordinary.'

The notion had come to him unexpectedly. While he was trying to puzzle out the secrets of the Great Manfred's tricks, another part of his mind had apparently been gnawing away on something else.

The magic suppressors. To perform as they did, they must grapple with the nature of magic itself. Magic and anti-magic. It was a frontier area of magical research, as far as Aubrey knew, but it was immensely important for the future of rational magical theory.

Perhaps it could shed some light on death magic – and his condition.

Seven

MONDAY MORNING, GREYTHORN. AUBREY HAD BEEN to the university town many times, and had even been to the colleges, accompanying his father on one trip or another. But it was different, approaching as a student instead of a visitor.

He checked his new pocket watch to make sure they weren't late. The Brayshire Ruby had been beautifully set into the gold cover of the watch; Anderson and Sutch had done a superb job, with the internal workings as well as the decorative case.

'I'm sure I've forgotten something,' George muttered as the motor-cab rattled through the cobbled streets.

'You're bound to have,' Aubrey said. 'You can send for whatever it is.'

'Of course. Quite.' George settled back, but didn't look convinced. 'When are you planning to bump into Caroline?'

'What?'

'You know, old man, accidentally crossing paths with her, happening to be outside her lecture, something like that. Apostle's College isn't far away. Maybe your bicycle will have a flat tyre, right outside her room?'

'I have no such plans,' Aubrey said stiffly, although he had been pleased when Caroline had opted to live in college rather than stay at home with her mother in the town. He looked out of the window to see two dons arguing on a street corner, one jabbing the other with a rolled-up newspaper.

Ah, the spirited life of academic discourse, he thought.

'No?' George continued. 'Why not? I thought you'd be right onto it, opportunity and all that.'

'Caroline has her calling. She's at university to study. She doesn't want any distractions.'

'I see. How's that feel then, to be a distraction?'

'Potential distraction.' He sighed. 'I'm not going to put my foot in it again, George. Not after last time.'

'Mm. Embarrassing.'

'Embarrassment I can handle. But hurting other people, blindly? Even when I think I'm doing the right thing? Not any more.'

George pursed his lips for a while. 'Commendable, that, not wanting to hurt people.'

'I would have thought so.'

'But if it means you just don't do anything, then it's a bit limiting, what?'

'Perhaps. But better that than the alternative.'

'Are you sure?'

'Oh, definitely. I consider myself an expert in every aspect of human relationships, now.'

'Really?'

'Of course not. I'm struggling to keep my head above water.'

The motor-cab veered to one side. With a squeal of brakes, it lurched close to the kerb. 'We're here, gents,' the cabby announced. 'St Alban's College.'

THE PORTER SHOWED THEM TO THE ROOMS THEY WERE going to share. Aubrey stood at the door and took grim satisfaction in the knowledge that the quality of the rooms was a way of reinforcing their status. First-year students were the lowest of the low, and thus were put in the dingiest rooms. It wasn't anything personal, it was simply five hundred years of tradition.

Their quarters were two rooms, second floor of the northern wing, perfectly situated to catch every hint of icy wind when it rolled down from the hills, as it did with clockwork regularity in these parts.

Two beds, two wardrobes and a washstand in the bedroom; two desks with empty bookshelves in the study. It was old, it was bare, and it was going to be their home.

Aubrey skimmed his hat onto the bed. 'Wardrobes. They're spoiling us, George.'

George ambled to the window. He struggled, but eventually threw it open; fresh air edged in, as if unsure of its welcome. 'We're in the lap of luxury. Just wait until we get those trunks up here. The importance of floor space is greatly exaggerated, you know.'

Aubrey couldn't feel depressed, not here. University had beckoned for some time. Stonelea School had been as good as any in the country, but for the last two years he felt as if he'd been marking time, intellectually. His magical studies teachers had done as much for him as they could but he'd been chafing, wanting to learn more.

George groaned and smacked himself on the forehead. 'Idiot.'

'You've remembered what you forgot?'

George wiped his hand over a doleful face. 'Father gave me a book. I left it behind.'

Aubrey took this as further sign of his friend's distraction.

'It was important?'

'It was Lord Aldersham's memoirs. One of Father's favourites.'

'The newspaper magnate? Your father enjoyed that?'

'He did. And, more to the point, he knew I would.' George cursed his own forgetfulness again. He was so disconsolate Aubrey started to consider what he could do for him, but before he could think of anything, a knock came from the open door. 'Where do you want this case?' a voice asked.

'In the study,' Aubrey said, 'anywhere.'

He turned away from the window and stared at the man who was carrying one of George's suitcases. 'Commander Craddock.'