Word of Honour

All this he had been able to sense quite quickly; the revelation was that the key was a spoken one.

It was a crucial discovery, but it still left the doorway locked.

The standard technique in these matters would be to construct a spell that would generate and articulate words, one at a time, until the correct one was stumbled upon. This also showed the limitations of brute force, as the process could take a lifetime or two.

What Aubrey needed was a crib, a hint as to the type of key word that had been used. But where to start? Aubrey whirled, heart racing, and stared back along the tunnel. His silence had been suddenly interrupted by a short, sharp explosion. It was followed by a growl, a deep mechanical rattling which stuttered and cut off.

Then all was quiet except for George's cursing.

Aubrey was already racing towards the disturbance when he registered that George's swearing wasn't shocked or fearful. It was the heartfelt tone of voice he reserved for recalcitrant machinery.

Rounding the corner, he slowed, both astonished and amused at the sight before him.

George had his head and shoulders buried in the innards of the tunnelling machine so far it looked as if the contraption was eating him. Caroline was in the cabin, scowling at the instrument panel.

Without removing his head, George flapped a hand.

'Try again!'

'Get out of the way first!' Caroline called.

George straightened. He'd removed his jacket and he had a large grease smear on one cheek. He smiled at his friend. 'Aubrey, we've got this thing working –' The rest of his words were cut off by a deafening blast from the belly of the tunneller. Smoke erupted from a dozen different vibrating places. The whole thing shook like a volcano that had decided enough was enough and it really needed to clear its throat.

George stood back, beaming. 'Splendid, what?'

Aubrey was about to offer his congratulations when the tunneller coughed, missed more than a few strokes, and ground to a halt. George eyed it menacingly. 'Ghastly machine.' He glanced at Aubrey. 'I thought those printing presses were uncooperative. This thing makes them look as placid as a draught horse.'

Caroline leaped down from the cabin. 'I think the fuel line might be choked, with all the rock dust that must have been flying around. Would you like me to check, George?'

Aubrey finally found his words. 'How did you get it started?'

Caroline frowned. 'What?'

'It was locked. I checked it when we first found it. The ignition control was locked by the same sort of spell I'm grappling with up there.'

'Oh that.' Caroline waved a hand with a gesture that was so elegant it would make a ballet master cry. 'It was a magical key lock, verbal.'

Aubrey goggled.

'I thought everyone knew that,' George said smugly.

'Yes,' Caroline said. 'I would have thought you'd see that, with all your magical experience.'

'Key. The key word.'

'Yes, that's the nub of the problem, isn't it?' she said. 'Once I had it, the lock fell away and I could engage the ignition. Now, if only George can clear this fuel line . . .'

'But how did you find out the key word? Luck?'

'I don't trust to luck, Aubrey, you know that. It lets one down at the most awkward times.' She smiled, wickedly, and Aubrey saw how she'd been playing with him.

'I apologise,' he said quickly.

'What for?'

'For whatever I've done to make you keep me in suspense like this.'

'Oh, you've done nothing in particular. This time. Just keeping you on your toes.'

'Consider my toes totally extended at all times. Now, can you tell me how you came up with the key word?'

'It was written on a piece of paper pinned to the instrument panel.'

Aubrey blinked. 'I may be forced to revise my estimate of our foe's omnipotence.'

George shrugged. 'So he's forgetful. He can still be dangerous, you know.'

'And what was the key word, out of interest?' Aubrey said.

'It wasn't a word. It was a phrase.'

'Good idea. Even harder to guess.'

'Except if it's written down right in front of one,' George said.

'Of course. And what was this phrase?'

'The Lady of the Lake.'

Aubrey narrowed his eyes and stared at the rocky roof overhead. 'The Lady of the Lake,' he repeated. 'It must mean something to him.'

'Of course it does,' George said. 'It's the name of that show. He sings songs from it. I read about it in the newspaper:" A charming, romantic fantasy. "' 'An opera?'

'Light opera,' Caroline said.

'I thought it was an operetta,' George said, interested.

'Regardless,' Aubrey said, 'Tremaine sings songs from it?'

'In his stage show. As Spinetti.'

Aubrey stood motionless as thoughts bounced around in his head. It could be the crib he was looking for. Music was apparently on Tremaine's mind – the reviews showed that he wasn't taking his role as a singer lightly. With his penchant for plots, counter-plots, false plots and plots that look like plots but are – underneath – schemes masquerading as plots, small things like key words could be hard to remember. What better way to remember them than to use something that was already on his mind?

'Let's leave the tunneller for now,' Aubrey suggested.

'I need your help to get into the Vault Room.'

'Happy to.' George actually gave the tunneller a kick. It was a light one, but the machine boomed hollowly, as if remorseful.

'How, Aubrey?' Caroline asked. 'Magic is your area of expertise, not ours.'

'True, but between us we might have a good coverage of musical theatre.'

Caroline's expression was a marvel of economy. In one tiny raising of her eyebrows, a hint of a twitch of the right corner of her lip and a slight, sceptical movement of her cheek, she managed to communicate that she had some doubts about Aubrey's sanity, but she was willing to go along with his suggestion because querying it now would result in a convoluted and long-winded attempt at explanation.

George merely slipped his jacket on. 'Right you are. This way?'

Half an hour later, they were all slumped around the false Old Man of Albion, defeated.

'We've tried the names of operas.'Caroline rubbed her forehead. 'Gallian, and from every part of Italia.'

George was sitting with his back to the rock. He had his eyes closed. 'We've tried light operas, operettas, comic operas, folk operas and every variation we could think of.'

'We've tried the names of singers, composers, lyricists, arrangers and costumiers, 'Caroline said. 'Nothing's worked.'

Aubrey was bone weary. He leaned, arms crossed on his chest, against the foundations. 'I know,' he said. He groaned. 'But we're close. I can feel it.'

'I'm glad you can,' George said. 'Because all I feel is tired and sweaty.'

Aubrey straightened. His eyes widened. 'Oh, for an extendable and flexible leg.'