'Thousands?'
'Metaphorically speaking.'
'I see. That's where "thousands" is a metaphor for "none", is it?'
'What a hurtful thing to say,' George responded, grinning. 'As a result, I'll leave you to your own devices.'
'An entirely satisfactory state of affairs.'
Eleven
THE TWO HOURS AUBREY HAD IN BED WERE NOT restful at all. Sleep fled from him, and instead, he was plucked and pummelled by worry.
His fatigue and weakness were steadily growing, but he'd had enough experience to feel that he could force himself on despite them. The other signs were more disquieting. His appetite was still a stranger to him, and he was sure he'd lost weight. His senses of taste and smell had diminished. He had lost more hair. The rough and flaking skin had spread up his arms, across his chest and shoulders.
Most worrying of all was the impaired healing. In the early morning light, he examined the slash on the base of his thumb. Having removed the tightly bound handkerchief, he noted, gloomily, that although the bleeding had slowed, it hadn't stopped.
That's not what I need at all, he thought. He found a clean handkerchief and rebound the wound.
He crossed the room on unsteady legs and stood at the washstand. He shuddered at the pale, drawn face he saw in the mirror. His eyes were dull, and was that a patch of flaking skin on his neck?
He dashed water on his face. He dressed, wearing a starched high-collared shirt despite the discomfort. He tucked Bernard's journal into his jacket pocket in the hope that he'd find some time to decipher the writings.
For a moment, Aubrey rested his head on the brass bed post. Deep down, he'd always been confident he'd find a remedy for his condition. It was just another puzzle to solve, after all. Some hard work, some flashes of insight, and he'd triumph, snatching victory when all seemed lost.
Now, however, time was proving to be a more difficult opponent than he'd thought. It was racing away, leaving him more debilitated as the hours ticked by.
With a chill that began in his heart and worked its way outwards, Aubrey realised that perhaps things weren't going to be all right this time. He could do nothing other than press on with the plans he'd formulated during the sleepless hours, but the consequences of failure were looming as more than something to be put in a box and marked 'possible outcome'.
If he couldn't stop his deterioration, he would die the true death.
Sobered, and more than a little shaken, he went downstairs, thinking hard.
Madame Calvert was finishing her breakfast when he arrived downstairs. She handed him a letter. 'It came last night. From the embassy. And a Miss Hepworth rang. She said she couldn't go with you today as her mother needed her for more modelling. She apologised and asked if she could join you tomorrow morning. A polite young lady.'
Aubrey nodded. In a way, he was glad. His plans for the day included something he'd rather Caroline not see.
Aubrey read the letter and, dimly, noted he couldn't smell the cup of coffee Madame Calvert had placed in front of him.
The letter was from his mother and it gently but firmly prompted him for some progress in his seeking of Dr Romellier. He read it guiltily, but then considered the status of his commitments.
He decided that George had made some dent in the genealogy quest for Bertie, and while he didn't have his grandmother's letters in his possession, he had a promising avenue of investigation to follow, with Monsieur Caron having promised to bring the letters to his shop. That made two tasks where he could firmly say some headway had been made.
George walked through the door, yawning. 'Morning, old man. Busy day ahead?'
'Not if we had an army of servants at our disposal. But seeing as there's only us, it promises to be full and interesting.'
'Splendid. Sounds as if I should make sure I'm well fed before setting out.'
'Of course.' Aubrey sighed and laced his hands on his chest. 'I'm going to do something about my condition.'
'Excellent. Not before time, I'd say.' George gestured at the empty plate in front of Aubrey. 'You're not eating.'
'No. I can't.'
'Ah. That bad, is it?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'Then we must get you fixed up, straightaway.'
Aubrey watched his friend stow away an astonishing amount of food. He admired the gusto with which George attacked the pastries, rolls, cheese and fruit. He was full of life, practically vibrating with it, and Aubrey felt envious.
When they finally left the apartment building, Aubrey was taken aback to find Gabriel propped against a lamp post at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for them. A poster promising unspecified disaster had been pasted on a letter box and Gabriel was eyeing it moodily. He was accompanied by four substantial colleagues, none of whom looked as if he would be much use in a battle of wits. Freestyle brawling, however, would be a different matter.
'Fitzwilliam,' Gabriel said in Gallian. 'You say that you're interested in supporting our movement, do you?' He spoke as if their conversation of the previous evening hadn't been interrupted by a bear attack and an exploding dirigible.
Aubrey had a vision of his plans for the day torn into confetti and thrown into the air. 'Albion has an interest in a stable continent,' he replied, carefully.
'Excellent.' Gabriel slapped his thigh as if Aubrey had just pledged his fortune to the cause. 'To test your commitment, however, we have a task for you. To prove yourself.'
Aubrey narrowed his eyes. What sort of proof of loyalty would Gabriel want? Something illegal would be useful, putting a new recruit apart from normal society, binding them closely to the organisation as the only place that would have them.
'If you doubt our word . . .' Aubrey said.
'Actions speak louder than words. Come.'
George caught Aubrey's eye. 'Old man?'
'We're going with them.'
'D'you think that's wise? Don't you have something urgent to do?'
With Gabriel looking suspiciously at him, Aubrey shook his head. 'This is more important. I'm sure that other matter can wait.'
George didn't look convinced. 'I hope you know what you're doing.'
Aubrey shrugged. So do I, he thought.
AUBREY AND GEORGE WERE HERDED ALONG ALLEYS AND lanes and through the crowded yards of carters, merchants and providores. Gabriel went confidently and was often greeted by name. Aubrey noted this as an indication of how far the Marchmaine independence movement had penetrated Gallian society, at least at the level of those who fetched, carried and carted.
They came across another pack of dogs, worrying at the remains of what appeared to be a horse. The dogs growled but didn't give chase.
They entered a short street. On the corner was a seedy bar, the Loyal Badger. Half a dozen shops were lined up along the ground floor of the four-storey buildings. Gabriel led the way to the last door on the left, just before the street ran into another at right angles.