‘Who we are meeting next is of no concern to you.’
‘It’s Guttmann, isn’t it? I thought I saw him earlier.’
Aubrey made a note of the name and was already congratulating himself for his decision to go along with the pretence. ‘I haven’t seen Guttmann for years.’
‘Don’t be a fool. Guttmann will cheat you and then kill you.’
‘It’s a dangerous business we’re in,’ Aubrey said, doing his best to hide the fear that woke in his stomach. ‘Guttmann and the others.’
Cryptic though his utterances were, they seemed to convince her.
‘Your company can supply the magic we need?’
More intelligence gold. Aubrey rubbed mental hands together with delight. ‘Provided we’re given the right parameters.’
‘Parameters? No-one said anything about parameters.’
Aubrey held up a placatory hand. ‘You can’t do magic without parameters. I’ll need to know area of effect, duration, that sort of thing.’
She considered this then nodded. ‘I’ll need to contact my people.’
‘Of course.’
‘Your reputation says that you have access to some sort of magical suppression. Is this true?’
Aubrey stared. Had she worked out who he really was? He sought for time. ‘It depends. It’s difficult to know without some idea of the type of magic we’re dealing with.’
‘Of course, of course.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘I need more information from my colleagues.’ She stood. ‘You will wait to hear from me?’
Aubrey and George were on their feet, and Aubrey took a chance. He sensed that she was keen to do business. ‘I have other clients, you know.’
She stiffened. ‘I will contact you in Fisherberg.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
Aubrey looked at George. He took his cue and nodded. ‘Very well,’ Aubrey said.
She left without saying goodbye. Aubrey and George resumed their seats. ‘Now, old man,’ George said. ‘Would you mind telling me what that was all about?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. I was extemporising.’
‘Ah. Making it up as you go along.’
‘Exactly. I thought it a lark to see if we could pick up some titbits which could be useful to our spymasters.’
‘It seems as if we’ve stumbled into more than that,’ George muttered. ‘Striking-looking woman, she was, wouldn’t you say?’
‘She’s too old for you, George. And probably too dangerous.’
‘Who is she, anyway?’
‘No idea. She didn’t give away much, so she’s certainly an experienced hand at this.’
‘At this? At what?’
‘Subterfuge. Clandestine plots. Trans-national schemes.’ Aubrey crossed his arms and sat back. ‘She’s a mercenary, perhaps, or a member of some partisan group or other, resisting something they think needs resisting. The Continent is swarming with such at the moment.’
Aubrey knew that Holmland wasn’t alone in its territorial ambitions. The hotbed that was the Goltan Peninsula was a mass of seething malcontent and brooding grudges. Borders moved around as if they were made of rubber. And on the other side of Holmland, even though the Central European Empire was thrashing around in the last days of its viability, Emperor Wolfgang was looking for any excuse to prove it wasn’t so.
Riding roughshod over local history, culture and sensibilities was a way of life for those with lofty ambitions and fat heads, and it resulted in resistance leagues and underground movements springing up like mushrooms after autumn rain. All of these groups had axes to grind and there were plenty of shady business people ready to sell them bigger and better axes – at a price.
Aubrey knew that Albion’s intelligence agencies were doing what they could to keep informed about these groups. Part of this was defensive, but part of it was strategic. He was sure there was a sub-department somewhere in the Ministry of Defence devoted to working out just which of these groups may be useful in distracting Holmland from war with Albion – or which could be handy allies in the war that was to come. If he could garner any information along these lines, it could be valuable.
George sat up. ‘I say. Shouldn’t we be getting that lunch to your mother? We promised.’
It had slipped Aubrey’s mind. He summoned a waiter and explained his situation. The waiter was happy to organise a luncheon for Lady Rose. Aubrey was sure she wouldn’t notice the lateness of the arrival of her meal. When she was immersed in a knotty task, the end of the world could come and go and she wouldn’t be aware of it.
They passed the rest of the afternoon in their special carriage. George went back to his newspaper and was making a determined effort to reach his goal of being able to recite its contents by heart. Lady Rose scowled her way through her lunch of soup and a beautifully constructed salad, without leaving a table that had become a city of book towers. Aubrey was left to his own devices and applied himself to reading something he’d found in the small library, a collection of Holmland folktales featuring the unlikely hero of Hans the Cheesemaker, who waddled his way through a series of increasingly bizarre dairy-related adventures.
As evening drew in and the shadows crept across the countryside, the attendant was escorted in by one of the guards. He lit the gaslamps and took away the remains of Lady Rose’s meal, which made Aubrey sit up. ‘I think I’ll go back to the restaurant car,’ he announced, ‘and book a table for us. We don’t want to miss out.’
Lady Rose waved a hand. He had the impression he could have declared he was going to sprout wings and fly to Antipodea and he would have had the same reaction. George grunted. ‘You want me to come along, old man?’
‘No need, no need. Not when you’re making such splendid progress.’
George had already lowered his head. He grunted again.
The lounge car was more crowded at this time of the day. Aubrey wondered if it was the darkness that brought them out, making the furtive ones feel more secure in the shadowy corners of the car. He listened for any details of assassinations or bombings as he eased his way through the well-dressed crowd, but caught nothing except complaints about the water.
A first-class sleeping car separated the lounge car from the restaurant car. It would be a favoured position, Aubrey decided, not far from the amenities of life. The corridor ran alongside the compartments, each closed discreetly. The train was navigating a long curve, for Aubrey found himself leaning outward. Through the windows, he could see they were well into the mountains. The solemn pines were thick and close to the tracks.
The train rocked back the other way and, as it did, the compartment door just in front of Aubrey burst open. A man staggered out. He had blood streaming from a cut on his forehead, but he hardly seemed to notice. He barked a guttural oath, then waded back into the compartment, from which came the unmistakeable sound of a fracas.
Aubrey rushed over. He stood in the doorway, holding onto the frame as the train chose this moment to shudder and jerk.
The compartment was small and compact. The beds had not been pulled down and the two bench seats faced each other. In this cramped space, the bloody-browed man was throwing punches at someone whose presence astonished Aubrey into immobility.
It was Manfred, the erstwhile stage performer, the sleight-of-hand artist who had been revealed as a double agent – and who had led a cadre of Holmland rebels to their deaths.
Manfred looked the same as when Aubrey had last seen him – tall, well groomed, neat pointed beard – but his composed stage persona was a million miles away from what Aubrey was presented with here. Manfred was absorbing the battering from Bloody Brow while keeping one arm flung out to prevent a woman from leaving the corner where he’d trapped her. He stood unflinching, taking the punches on his body and face as he concentrated on keeping the woman confined. She wasn’t helpless, either. She was hammering at the back of his head with cold fury.