Heart of Gold

After he'd scanned the terse lines of text, he knew why Craddock had been so keen to get a message to him. He frowned and tested the integrity of his muffling spell. Satisfied, he passed the message to Caroline. 'Large-scale magic creates disturbances that magicians can detect. The Magisterium has operatives whose sole job is to monitor for these, so they can dispatch response squads. Whole rooms of them, in Darnleigh House, just waiting, sensing . . .' He rubbed his eyes and wished he were feeling more robust. 'Apparently, when the Heart of Gold was stolen, it was like a major earthquake. Several of the most sensitive operatives were hospitalised.' If I've timed this correctly, he thought, Caroline should have reached the last part of the message. 'Read it out,' he said. 'The last sentence.'

'"Do everything to find and return the Heart of Gold."' She looked up. 'It's true then? Gallia will collapse without it?'

'I don't know. Perhaps the Magisterium is simply concerned about the effect on Gallian morale, but I don't think so. I think they're afraid Gallia will crumble.'

'And that would be very bad for Albion,' George said.

'Very bad indeed.' Aubrey took a sip of his mineral water. It was flat and tasteless on his tongue. 'Well, I suppose that tomorrow is all laid out for me now.'

THE NEXT MORNING, THURSDAY, AUBREY HAD A RAGING headache even before he opened his eyes. When he did, everything in his room was wavery, with multiple outlines, even though the dim light outside suggested it was scarcely past dawn. He sat up in bed, but dizziness threatened to swamp him. He lay back, closed his eyes again and, exhausted, concentrated on breathing.

It was clear that his condition was deteriorating, and faster than he'd expected. The fatigue, the aching joints, the loss of appetite, the dizziness all pointed to the fact that the true death was calling.

He concentrated on steadying himself. He tried to construct a spell, but he couldn't sustain the effort required. His focus became ragged and he couldn't piece enough elements together.

He clenched his teeth, even though that simple action hurt his jaw. He wasn't about to let things fall apart. If he couldn't save himself through magic, he'd have to do it through stubbornness.

Aubrey lay there, eyes closed, his hands curled in fists, every muscle taut, simply refusing to let his soul drift away from his body. The golden cord that united the two was ragged, unravelling. He brought his magical attention to bear on it, finding the weak points and doing his best to knit them together. It was painstaking, meticulous work and he had the sense that it was wearing faster than he could mend it.

Every breath in and every breath out became a victory. Aubrey fastened onto these small triumphs and made every one a milestone. One breath after another, then the next and the next. Breathing is life, he repeated to himself. Breathing is life.

When George burst through the door, Aubrey started. Daylight was flooding in around the edges of the curtains. 'I was asleep,' he said with some surprise.

'Good thing. Just what you need.' George was fairly bouncing with excitement. 'What I need is one of Madame Calvert's excellent breakfasts.'

George threw back the curtains and sunlight flooded the room.

Aubrey swung his legs over the edge of the bed and gazed at his striped pyjama legs. He was alive.

'What's so funny, old man?'

'Nothing, really. I was just thinking about how useful pig-headedness can sometimes be.'

WHILE GEORGE WAS WORKING THROUGH A THIRD PASTRY, Aubrey sniffed.

George wiped his mouth with a napkin. 'Getting a cold, old man?'

'No. I just realised that I can't smell anything.' Aubrey reached out and took a teaspoon of jam. He rolled the sticky stuff around in his mouth, then made a face. With an effort, he swallowed it. 'Nor taste anything.'

'Ah.' George looked at his repast. 'I wouldn't like that. Another sign of your problem?'

'I think so.'

George muttered a few consolatory words, but the rest of the breakfast was subdued. Aubrey toyed with his butter knife, depressed, and struggled with a glass of water. Inaction chafed at him and he became impatient to be off.

Eventually, Aubrey and George stood on the street outside Madame Calvert's residence. The sky was pale blue, but white, tattered clouds regularly drifted across, cutting off the sunlight. Aubrey found the effect disconcerting, as the streetscape was intermittently shadowed, then bright, then shadowed again. It chilled him, even though the morning was warm.

He paused. The gutter on the opposite side of the street had backed up. Putrid water, choked with rubbish, was belching from the drain while two workmen scratched their heads. Aubrey frowned.

George held up a pencil and tapped his notebook. 'I've mapped out my day according to the Prince's notes and the closest metro stations. Madame Calvert recommended a café where I should be able to get a good lunch. I've written down some useful phrases.'

Aubrey was impressed. 'Such as?'

'Oh, things like "I beg your pardon" and "Sorry" and "Forgive me, I'm from Albion".'

'I can see that sort of thing coming in handy.'

'And you? Are you feeling chipper enough?'

'I'm aiming to do something about that,' Aubrey admitted. 'I want to find von Stralick and see what he knows about this Heart of Gold business, but before that I'm going to get to this Faculty of Magic, if it exists.' He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. 'I hope to find something useful there.'

George frowned. 'I worry about you, old man.'

'I appreciate that, George, but let's hope I can give you less cause for worry, soon.' Give all of us less cause for worry. 'Oh, and keep your eyes peeled for a man.'

'A man? Any man in particular?'

'I have the impression that someone is watching us. Tall, slender, unmemorable face.'

'Sounds easy enough to spot.' He studied Aubrey. 'D'you think it's serious?'

'Be careful, George, that's what I'm saying. Stay alert.'

'At all times. I'll be a veritable paragon of alertness.'

AUBREY COULDN'T HELP BUT NOTICE THE MOOD THAT HAD fallen on the university. As the ragged clouds scudded across the heavens, he saw knots of angry students arguing, with much flinging of hands in the air and stalking off in high dudgeon.

He wondered if news of the theft of the Heart of Gold had filtered out. Or was there simply a collective reaction to the loss, a national response on a level below the conscious? From the troubled faces of the students and academics, something was at work.

Aubrey was crossing the specimen garden at the rear of the Botany building when he was flagged down. 'Fitzwilliam! Fitzwilliam!'

He shook off his thoughts to see Duval hurrying toward him. The theatre director wore a houndstooth jacket and a beret. 'Hello, Duval. How's the production progressing?'