Aubrey indicated that he was, indeed, of that name, and in return received a message satchel.
‘I’ve come straight from Darnleigh House,’ the operative said. ‘Orders were to get this to you post-haste.’
Aubrey looked for, and found, the tell-tale callus on the inside of the man’s left forefinger, and confirmed his guess by the marks on either side of the man’s chin where the straps of his flying helmet rested. ‘What model ornithopter were you flying?’
The man blinked. ‘A new model. The 780 Gannet. Special long-range capability.’
Some stern looks from nearby hushed Aubrey. He signed his thanks to the operative, who withdrew.
While a lieutenant-colonel delivered a paper about the possibility of a temporary rail bridge to replace the one lost at Divodorum, General Apsley was scanning the documents in the satchel he’d been delivered. Aubrey thought it best that he do the same.
One document confirmed Aubrey’s speculation about the magnitude of the disappearance of magicians in Albion. It also summarised findings from their Gallian intelligence colleagues, who also noted that magicians had been vanishing.
Another document was a report from the remote sensing department. While Aubrey had had some contact with the field operatives who had the rare skill of being able to sense magic at vast distances, the bulk of these operatives worked from the basement of Darnleigh House. Commander Craddock’s note, appended to the report, suggested that Aubrey might be interested in the activity report compiled by the sensers.
He was. A map provided with the report showed what the sensing department nominated as ‘hot spots’, areas of concentrated magic. The map had been matched and overlaid with a map of the Divodorum front, and then of the supply and transport lines back into Holmland.
In the days prior to Aubrey’s great spell, objects of magical power were being transported toward the Divodorum front. Most were coming from the direction of Fisherberg by train, but calculated guesses indicated that some were coming by airship, others by river barge. Twenty-seven separate objects impinged themselves on the map, shining brightly like beacons, tracking day by day toward the battlefront – only to halt and then change direction after Aubrey’s great spell.
These observations matched up with the sensations Aubrey had had in the trenches. Vast magic had been in the area. Had it been assembling to generate an attack, or was it merely giving strength to the illusory charges sent toward the Albion lines?
Now, according to the findings of the remote sensers, Stalsfrieden was ablaze with magical power. The only thing the commander of the remote sensing unit could compare it to was the emanation of the Heart of Gold in the middle of Lutetia. Aubrey immediately concluded that the magical artefacts had withdrawn with the Chancellor. Was this Dr Tremaine’s doing? Was he withdrawing as well? What did it signify?
He rubbed his forehead. Intelligence was gathered to make sense of the confusion of war, but sometimes it was like striking a light in the middle of a midnight forest – the nearby trees could be seen a little better, but everything else remained decidedly ominous.
Once he read each paper, Aubrey passed it on to Caroline on his left. When Aubrey finished with the last document – a repetition of the puzzling request for information about any missing dental supplies – he sat back just as the lieutenant-colonel finished and General Apsley jumped to his feet.
‘Excellent, Phillips, excellent.’ He beamed. ‘Now, I have some news directly from our High Command. The PM himself -’ he paused to nod at Aubrey ‘- has signed these orders, which apply to each and every one of you here. We have the task, the most urgent task, of ensuring that our new King be returned to Albion immediately. This is the highest priority for all units, and we are to provide any assistance necessary to expedite this goal.’
Bertie frowned slightly, then nodded, and Aubrey knew that his friend had immediately understood the necessity for him to be removed from all possibility of danger. Having an heir to the throne near the front like this was barely acceptable, even given the rallying effect it had on the morale of the troops, but hosting the actual King? Preposterous.
Aubrey had also seen the thoughtful looks many around the table had been giving the new King. He guessed they were the more ambitious among them, deciding how best to commend themselves to the new monarch. Ambition never slept.
General Apsley went on to canvass the safest way to transport King Albert back to Albion, but Aubrey had other more important matters at hand. After taking in the information from the Directorate, he tried drawing diagrams to determine how Dr Tremaine fitted in.
His cogitations were interrupted when George appeared at his elbow. It didn’t create any great interest as the room was abuzz with comings and goings; the brass at the table constantly had aides whispering into their ears with news, information and dinner menus, for all Aubrey knew, so one more was hardly noticed.
‘You need to come with me,’ George said softly, but urgently. ‘Professor Mansfield has escaped from Dr Tremaine and wants to talk to you.’
60
The field hospital on the east side of the chateau was a large and well-ordered, if sombre, place. George hurried Aubrey and Caroline through the rows of tents full of beds with men who weren’t critically wounded, but who were definitely not capable of fighting in the near future. At the centre of the medical facility was a large tent in uproar. ‘She’s refusing to go into the operating theatre until she sees you,’ George explained to Aubrey and Caroline.
‘She’s hurt?’
‘She was on that ornithopter we saw crash, but it’s more than that.’
George explained that Sophie had been co-opted into acting as an interpreter for the hurt Gallians who had ended up at the facility. George had done what he could, and when on an errand to find a particular chest surgeon he’d been recognised by the seriously injured Professor Mansfield. She had implored him to bring Aubrey to her.
Having delivered Aubrey and Caroline, George hurried off to find Sophie.
Wounded men and stretcher bearers were clustered at the opening of the tent, which smelled of carbolic soap, ether and blood. From inside came shouting and the sound of breaking glass.
With Caroline at his side, Aubrey eased his way through the crush at the entrance to find a large space, well lit by electric light, a preparation area for those about to enter the operating area behind the two wooden doors at the far end of the tent. Screened-off beds were being shielded by nurses, while near the doors white-coated doctors struggled around a trolley. One – round glasses and an impressive pointed beard – staggered back and cursed in a most unprofessional manner. When he saw Aubrey, he barked in aggrieved Albionite tones: ‘Are you Fitzwilliam? She keeps calling for you.’
‘Professor Mansfield?’
‘Calm her down, quickly. She needs surgery, but we have others just as needy who are waiting.’
With a word from him, the other doctors backed away from the narrow trolley. Aubrey approached to find his one-time lecturer in Ancient Languages draped in a blood-stained sheet, her eyes wild, her movements frantic. ‘Aubrey? Is that you?’
Aubrey’s heart went out to her. She had been the most energetic and most vivid of his Greythorn lecturers, and not only because she was the only woman among them, and nor was it the fact that she was by far the youngest. It was her animation and her vivacity that had appealed to him, but here it was transformed. Her eyes rolled, her small frame shivered, her face was blackened by soot, her hair hung in sweaty ringlets as she was sitting, gaze darting about as if she expected to be attacked from all sides at once.
He came to her side. ‘Professor Mansfield.’
Her gaze locked on him. She gasped – a wrenching, tormented sound – and clutched at his arm with bony fingers. She buried her face in his chest. Awkwardly, he took her in his arms. ‘Dr Tremaine,’ she sobbed hoarsely, ‘he’s on his way to attack Trinovant.’