VON STRALICK WAS WAITING AT THE BASE OF THE STATUE OF Marshal Beaumain, as promised. He had a sketchbook and pencil in hand, and was offering a quick portrait to passers-by, for a price.
'Hello, von Stralick,' Aubrey said. 'What would you do if someone took you up on your offer?'
Von Stralick snorted. 'Stand still for a moment.'
The Holmlander studied Aubrey for a moment, then his pencil flew across the page. A quick glance and he was off again, furiously scratching, his pencil whipping across the paper with strong, assured lines. Five minutes later, he held up the book.
'Very accurate,' Caroline said. 'I like the way you've caught the vacant eyes.'
'The chin,' George said. 'Very good, that. Very . . .'
'Handsome?' Aubrey suggested. 'Forceful? Noble?'
'Very Fitzwilliam,' George finished, tactfully.
'Hmm. I didn't realise you were so talented, von Stralick.'
The Holmlander shrugged. 'It's a handy skill and a useful cover. I can sketch emplacements, faces, buildings. It's strangely less suspicious than a camera.'
A crowd had gathered in front of the Academy of Sciences. A robed figure of a woman representing Rational Inquiry frowned down from the carvings of the triangular pediment. She held a book, a globe and something that was either a sextant or a bad model of a sailing ship. Aubrey thought she seemed disapproving, as if rationality were in short supply in the people below her feet.
Aubrey noted the police as well. At least a hundred uniformed officers – and who knew how many plain clothes detectives – were out, but standing well back and allowing the Marchmainers and their sympathisers to move unhindered.
Von Stralick surveyed the crowd. 'I haven't seen any of the Sons of Victor.'
'They're sure to be here?' Aubrey asked.
'I've collected a number of handbills this week that say they will be speaking.'
Aubrey gazed over the heads that were moving steadily toward the entrance. At first he thought the crowd was mostly men, but soon revised his opinion when he saw more than a few women, perhaps making up a good third of the audience. Observe, he thought. Don't draw attention. Keep a neutral expression. Be ready to report later. Simple.
With a nod and a gesture, he gathered his friends and von Stralick. Hands in the pockets of his jacket, eyes down, he joined the throng.
A sharp right turn just inside the entrance, much shuffling and a few oaths stemming from trampled toes, through the wide doorway and they were inside the lecture hall.
The stage was brightly lit by hissing gaslight. Several straight-backed wooden chairs stood some distance behind a lectern. The proscenium arch was a gilt allegory detailing the role of science in agriculture and manufacturing. Aubrey liked the donkeys, particularly.
All the seats in the lecture hall were taken and people were still pouring through the doorway, so Aubrey and his friends had to find standing room at the rear.
It was clear that the Marchmaine independence movement was well supported.
More people crowded in, squeezing the already minimal space. On the positive side it meant that Aubrey was edged closer to Caroline. He could smell her perfume – rising green notes with a touch of sandalwood – and he reminded himself to compliment her on it later. He felt her arm against his and was determined not to move in any direction, unless it was closer.
He'd lost track of von Stralick, but George was on his right. 'Cheer and applaud when everyone else does,' he muttered. George nodded.
The murmuring around him rose and Aubrey saw six men and a woman mount the steps to the stage, all dressed in workaday clothes. The murmuring died down when one – a tall, balding man with a thin moustache – strode to the lectern.
For a moment the man stood there, surveying the crowd. His face was sombre. When he spoke, it was with the voice of a practised orator. 'Greetings, brothers and sisters,' he said with the clipped north Gallian accent. 'It is reassuring to see so many of you here tonight, especially after the dire events of our march.'
A growl went up from the audience.
'A dozen of our comrades are still in hospital,' the speaker continued, 'but we will not be stopped.'
A roar greeted this declaration, accompanied by stamping of feet and whistling.
The speaker waited for the din to die down. 'Events are moving quickly. The National Assembly is meeting tomorrow. The Prime Minister has called an emergency session to discuss our cause. Not,' he stared balefully at the crowd, 'to decide how best to move toward a free Marchmaine, but how to declare our movement illegal!'
The tumult that rose made the previous din sound like a tea party. Aubrey actually noticed dust drifting down from the ceiling as the entire hall shook with indignation.
'Your committee' – he swept an arm to encompass those sitting on the stage – 'is preparing to meet with Prime Minister Giraud to register our displeasure.'
Aubrey studied the others. They were uniformly grim-faced, but one man, in particular, stood out. He was the youngest of those on the stage. He had a close beard so red it was orange, with eyebrows and hair to match. He wore a distinctive scarf knotted around his neck – blue and white checks, with a blue border. His arms were crossed, his lips clamped shut and he greeted the speaker's words with minute shakes of his head.
The speaker licked his lips. 'We will prevail. Our committees are planning more fundraising, greater membership drives and a better organisational structure. We will, in time, swell to numbers so vast that the government will not be able to ignore us.'
Aubrey had heard more inspirational speeches and, apparently, so had many of the audience. A stocky man in the front row stood and shook his fist. 'Committees!' he shouted in guttural Gallian. 'I spit on your committees!' He pointed at the red-bearded man. 'Tell us about action, Gabriel! What do the Sons of Victor say?'
The red-bearded man grinned with a smile so ferocious that, for a moment, it seemed as if he were the only person on the stage. He strode to the lectern, which was quickly surrendered to him. He jabbed a finger at the audience. 'I say that the spirit of Martin Victor lives on! Marchmaine will be free!'
Aubrey started. For an instant, he'd been seized by an extraordinary sensation. He felt as if he were bobbing in the ocean and had risen up the face of a large swell, then dropped down the other side. He looked around, blinking, but no-one else seemed to have noticed a thing.
The rolling wave of magic came again. Aubrey's awareness nudged at him, painfully. He concentrated, and could feel that the magical pulse was ancient. It had a ponderous majesty that spoke of eons past. At first, he was worried that someone had set off another of the anger spells that had caused the riot at the Middle Bridge, but this magic was utterly different.
Someone screamed. Above, Aubrey saw the moon, half-hidden by clouds. A few stars were showing and he tried to make out the constellations to which they belonged. Then, with a shock that caught in his throat, he realised he was looking right through the ceiling of the Academy of Sciences.
He reached behind him and touched the wall, reassuring himself that the building was still there, because the walls of the auditorium were fading as he watched. It had become ghostly, insubstantial, in places as clear as glass, while in others it had become misty and translucent. When he pressed, his hand sank into the substance of the wall, and he jerked it out with a grimace.