Word of Honour

'And how did a first-year, inexperienced country boy like you manage to become a journalist on a respected publication like Luna?'

George waved a hand. 'Well, I mentioned that I had experience with printing presses. Especially problematic ones.'

Aubrey snorted. While wrestling with a recalcitrant printing press in the name of the Marchmaine Independence League could come under the heading of 'experience', Aubrey had filed it under 'tortures not to be repeated'. He thought he still had ink under his fingernails. 'Nothing like starting at the bottom, George. Anything else?'

'I gave the Birdwatching Society a miss. The Rationalist League sounded interesting, but a bit serious.'

'No "Lounging Around and Being Indolent Society", was there?'

George flapped his hand. 'No need for an organised club there. I can manage that on my own. I did, however, put my name down for the Cricket Club. Thought I'd put the gloves on again, a spot of wicket-keeping.'

Aubrey smiled. 'Now, that sounds like a good idea. They need players?'

'They're always looking for players, the chap behind the desk told me.'

'Splendid.' He frowned. 'Now, where did I pack my bat?'

'Oh. And there's a Musical Theatre Society. Quite active, they are, too.'

'No.'

'No?'

'No more musical theatre for me. I've had quite enough, for now. I might try picking up an instrument, though.'

'Leave the cornet to me. It requires a sensitive touch.'

'I was thinking about the violin.'

'Caroline wouldn't have mentioned she liked the violin, would she?'

'She may have talked about enjoying string quartets, but at no time has she specifically nominated the violin by name.'

George didn't look at him. He tapped his teacup with a spoon, absently. 'And Spinetti?'

Aubrey took out his pocket watch and studied the Brayshire Ruby. It was comforting, a solid reminder of his heritage and of good Albionish craft. 'He is Dr Tremaine. I'm sure of it.'

'You are?'

'Most certainly.' Aubrey put his watch away. 'I know, it makes no sense, his being here. Regardless, it is him.'

'Even if no-one else can see it.'

'George, he used to be the Sorcerer Royal. He's capable of enchantments like no-one else.'

'But why? Pretending to be a singer doesn't seem like one of his plots to take over the world.'

Aubrey slumped. 'I don't know.'

'Shouldn't you tell Craddock, then? Isn't that the sort of thing he's got you watching out for?'

'How did you know? Never mind. Craddock's another one whose motivations are opaque.' Aubrey scowled, then glanced at George. 'Are you saying that you believe me?'

George nodded. 'I'm not saying that you're never wrong, but I've learned that the unbelievable isn't what it's reputed to be.'

'I'm touched, George, and glad that you believe in me, because I was starting to doubt myself.' He stretched, then yawned. 'Tomorrow, let's go and see about doing some joining up.'

THE NEXT DAY, AUBREY TOOK GEORGE'S PROTECTIVE colouration suggestion to heart. He joined the Fencing Club, the Cricket Club and the Chess Club, as well as making enquiries about the university regiment.

He was careful not to go near the Musical Theatre Society. He knew that even if he vowed to remain a casual backstage helper, somehow he'd end up spending most of his hours there and finding himself as an understudy to someone with precarious health and uncertain commitment.

While all this was pleasant diversion – as was meeting the many and various members of the college – he quickly plunged into the serious matter of his studies. Remembering his vow not to engage in any practical magic, he'd loaded up with magical theory subjects. The denser, the better.

After his first lecture in Sub-fundamental Magic, Aubrey knew that this was the place for him. His head spun as he left the lecture theatre; he found he had to trail a hand along the stone walls of the cloisters to keep himself upright. Despite doing his preparatory reading, and despite feeling that he knew as much as anyone, he had been dazzled by the depth of reasoning, the open vistas that lay before him; he'd been impressed, too, by the remorseless, intense presentation of Professor Bromhead. The uncomfortable performer from the Great Manfred's stage show was gone. The professor was in his element – demanding, gruff, clinical in his unfolding of the mysteries of the origins of magic.

Aubrey thought this was exhilarating enough, but on the following day, the professor mentioned his protégé, Lanka Ravi.

Even in the short time Aubrey had been at the university, he had heard about the mysterious Lanka Ravi. The young genius was the prime element of any discussion around the Faculty of Magic – who was he, where was he, what was he up to?

A few things were agreed on. Some time ago, a parcel of documents had arrived unannounced on Professor Bromhead's desk. His curiosity was aroused by the stamps and the return address: it was from the Subcontinent, but he didn't recognise the name of the sender.

As the Trismegistus professor of magic at the foremost university in Albion, Professor Bromhead often received letters from the public. Mostly, these were from people with an amateur interest in magic. Obscure theories would be advanced, new laws outlined, plans suggested to overthrow established magical procedures. Almost always, these were the products of enthusiastic, but deluded, believers. Nothing ever came of them.

This time, Bromhead was ready to pen another polite letter of acknowledgement when he glanced at the topmost sheet.

Four hours later, he was still poring over the tiny, precise handwriting. Reluctantly, he'd become convinced that this Mr Lanka Ravi had outlined at least two revolutionary magical laws, along with a supporting theoretical framework.

Professor Bromhead had trouble believing that someone so distant from modern magical discourse had derived such brilliant stuff. It sparked a frantic correspondence. After the exchange of a dozen letters, he was convinced. Lanka Ravi was a magical prodigy.

It took Professor Bromhead a year to persuade Lanka Ravi and his family, but finally the gifted isolate boarded a steamer and made his way to Albion.

Since arriving, he had been cloistered with the top brains from the Department of Experimental and Theoretical Magic, but the undergraduate speculation was constantly centred on when Lanka Ravi would give a public lecture. Bunches of magic students would congregate out of thin air, surge to a lecture theatre where Lanka Ravi's appearance was rumoured, then dissipate, morosely, when the rumour proved to be unfounded.

Of course, Aubrey was caught up in the fever. It was a giddy, thrilling time and the exotic nature of the unseen Tamil magician added to the heady atmosphere. For the rest of the week, he felt like a native scout in a canoe, swept along by rapids. By dint of furious paddling, he managed to keep from capsizing, but it was a near thing. College life, meals, socialising, meeting new and fascinating people, then lectures and tutorials and the silence of the far reaches of the library. He had his violin lessons, but gave up after a few days of furious practice, realising that expertise in some areas doesn't come overnight. He regretted it, as he enjoyed the music-making. He'd even had his fingertips temporarily hardened thanks to a neat spell cast by his violin instructor, to stop them becoming raw from pressing on the strings.