At one end of the room, past the benches, a huge man was sitting on a chair, gazing fixedly into the air. He wore an old-fashioned suit and he had one arm resting on a small table by his side. Behind him, billows of white canvas hung from the wall.
Facing away from Aubrey, with all his attention on the corpulent man, was a photographer.
Aubrey had observed George's dallying with photography, and had learned enough to see that this camera was a very strange contraption indeed. The tripod was standard equipment, but the camera itself was oddly proportioned, much wider than normal. The bellows which connected the lens and the plate box was rich leather while the woodwork was almost certainly mahogany. A metal shelf holding flash powder was attached to the right side of the camera by a moveable arm. Aubrey wondered at the purpose of the brass levers that protruded from the plate holder. The photographer was adjusting them with particular care.
The photographer straightened, still unaware that Aubrey had entered the room. He was a small man, with a long topcoat. He wore a bowler hat so low that his eyebrows nearly touched the brim.
'Now,' the photographer said in thick Gallian, 'your final photograph.'
Aubrey cleared his throat. 'Hello.'
The photographer jerked around. He was holding a photographic plate in one hand and a lit taper in the other. Aubrey had an impression of a moustached, wildeyed face with sharp cheekbones. His black hair hung long and unkempt, almost to his shoulders. The photographer stared at Aubrey with such astonishment that Aubrey almost laughed.
The photographer narrowed his eyes and touched the taper to the flash powder. A brilliant flash of light erupted. Aubrey reeled back, clutching his eyes while purple bursts danced across his vision and his magical senses ran riot.
He heard a curse, followed by clattering and fumbling, a crash and more swearing.
Opening his eyes and squinting through the smoke of the flash powder, Aubrey saw the photographer swinging a large black bag at him.
Aubrey ducked, rolled to one side and took a blow on his shoulder that made him grunt. His momentum combined with the blow to knock him forward, but as he fell he groped for his attacker. He grasped cloth, but with another curse it was yanked free.
The pounding of feet on the iron walkway signalled the flight of his assailant down through the tower.
Rubbing his shoulder, Aubrey climbed to his feet. He limped through the vestibule and out onto the walkway, wondering what had provoked such a reaction.
Below, clanging pell-mell down the stairway, as if all the fiends of hell were after him, was the photographer. He held his large black bag in one hand and he carried a long case on his shoulder.
The photographer looked up and saw Aubrey peering down at him, then he was off again. He pushed past Duval and Maurice, who'd come to see what all the din was about.
Aubrey went to the railing. 'A madman,' he called.
Maurice screwed up his face. 'This place has seen plenty of them.'
Wincing, Aubrey rubbed his shoulder again. He'd have a good-sized bruise, he guessed, right underneath the shoulder blade. As the discomfort eased, however, he became aware of another sensation – the rasping of magic.
He stared back at the workshop, his heart beginning to race. A deep moan came from the open door and his chest was suddenly tight with fear.
A large, blundering shape filled the doorway. It swayed, then pawed at the air, muttering. When it stepped out of the darkness, Aubrey saw it was the fat man who'd been posing for his photograph. His vast belly was a bulwark in front of him.
Then Aubrey saw his face. Slack, blank-eyed, devoid of all intelligence, it was the tell-tale visage of one who had been visited by the Soul Stealer.
A Gallian wail came from Maurice two floors below. 'Monsieur Bernard! What has happened to you?'
Aubrey flexed his hands. Bernard slowly heaved his great bulk to face him, and his moans turned to growls. With an effort, as if his body was slow to follow commands, he moved toward Aubrey, swinging his arms like clubs.
Aubrey skated backward, then turned and ran. He circled the walkway, and Bernard came after him with the awkwardness that seemed to come with the dispossessed state. Aubrey was confident that he could keep his distance.
Bernard – or the creature who had once been Bernard – growled and coughed, staggering from wall to railing, making rough, haphazard progress.
Aubrey could have lured Bernard further, then sprinted around to the stairs, but he continued backing away, weighing up his options.
With his state deteriorating again, he needed to find a way to stabilise his condition. He'd been hoping, deep down, that in the Faculty of Magic he'd find something that could help. Maurice had hinted at Monsieur Bernard's work in preserving life. Could the last magician in the faculty be Aubrey's saviour?
But he won't be any help at all in this condition, Aubrey thought as he kept his eye on the mindless brute Monsieur Bernard had become.
As if to emphasise Aubrey's thoughts, Bernard tottered to one side and collided with a door. It rattled under the impact and he swiped at it with a flat backhand.
Noise from the stairs made him look in that direction. Maurice stood on the staircase, appalled at what had happened to his master. Duval was below him, staring, equally horror-struck.
'Don't let him see you,' Aubrey called.
'What are you going to do?' Duval replied.
'What's in his room, Maurice?'
Maurice ran a hand through his stringy hair. 'Magical equipment. Books. Things he has collected over the years. He's never thrown anything away.'
I hope that's the case, Aubrey thought. 'I'm going to entice him back there. Then I'll help him.'
Duval gaped. 'You're a magician?'
'Yes.'
'What can we do?'
'Be ready if I call.'
Despite the weariness that dogged him, Aubrey ran for Bernard's workshop. He burst through the vestibule and into the main workshop. He stood directly under the mirrored light fitting and gazed around. A magician's workshop was the perfect resource for improvisation, so he had no shortage of useful stuff. While he thought, he pocketed a small box of rubber bands and a glue pot.
Behind him, Bernard's growls grew louder, followed by the sound of boxes tumbling on top of each other. Aubrey slipped around the first workbench, putting it between himself and the door. Keeping one eye on the entrance, he searched the bench and tried to form a plan.
He could try immobilising Bernard with his standard binding spell. As long as it's strong enough for such a behemoth, he thought when he took in the enormous bulk of the man framed in the doorway. He riffled through the spells and fragments of enchantments he'd learned, seeking something useful, but with the nagging doubt that came from the spell failure he'd experienced with even the simple binding spell.