Heart of Gold Read online

  It had been struck by lightning.

  The creature almost tumbled, then righted itself and began a descent that was a combination of vertigoinducing drops and a controlled tight spiral. Aubrey peered over the side. The flames of the still-descending dirigible reflected in the ponds of the sewage treatment works bordering the airfield.

  Their descent continued to slow. Aubrey cheered on the plucky bird, but the rasping tickle that signalled the presence of magic made him alert. The feathers beneath his fingers rippled and flowed, rearranging themselves, shifting shape. The creature heaved, plunging a little, then Aubrey was in the battered cabin of the ornithopter again. The windscreen was cracked and the smell of scorched metal was thick in the enclosed space. Aubrey had time to see that George was next to him and that the unconscious Gallian airman was in the seat behind. George was hastily strapping on his seat belt and Aubrey managed to do the same before the ornithopter splashed into the sewage works.

  Aubrey was thrown forward and hit his head on the steering column. He jerked back, half-stunned, as water cascaded on the cabin roof. He gasped for air and was rewarded by the rich fragrance of the settling ponds. Through the window he saw, in the distance, the tattered remains of the dirigible sinking with relative dignity into the swampy morass. A cloud of steam and smoke rose to the heavens.

  A dense, ponderous feeling settled on Aubrey's shoulders, making them sag. It took him some time to identify it as relief. Then he spent a moment wondering about the flawed spell, and how he could have made the ornithopter's change last longer, but he gave up, pleased that such a quickly cobbled-together effort had worked at all.

  George coughed and cleared his throat. 'Good landing.'

  'What?'

  'WingCo Jeffries said any landing you walk away from is a good landing.' George peered out of the window. 'Or in our case, swim away from.'

  'Oh.'

  The ornithopter wobbled, slipped, paused and then began to sink.

  Aubrey shrugged. Just when things couldn't get any worse, they did. He glanced over his shoulder to see that the Gallian was still unconscious, but breathing. He was sprawled across the back seats like a rag doll.

  Aubrey rubbed his forehead. He felt weary to the bone. The magical exertion had drained him and he knew he'd pay for it later. 'You know, George, I was just wondering why you jumped into the ornithopter with me. What were you going to do? You don't know the first thing about flying.'

  'Just habit, old man. You go off on a hare-brained expedition, I tag along to try to stop you from killing yourself. Or, at least, to minimise the damage to innocent bystanders. It's a hobby, I suppose.'

  'Couldn't you have taken up stamp collecting?'

  'Allergic to glue, old man. You know that.'

  Aubrey was silent for a time and watched the discoloured water rise up the windows. Then the ornithopter bumped and stopped sinking. Nearby, frogs started croaking.

  'George?'

  'Mmm?'

  'You remember that holiday I said we should take after the examinations?'

  'Of course.'

  'I think now could be a good time to take it.'

  Two

  IN THE CHARTER ROOM OF THE PALACE, SIR ARTHUR Ross, head of the Albion airship fleet, sat near the head of the long table and scowled. In the seat opposite, Melville Taylor – the new Minister for Defence – fumbled with his glasses and gazed mildly at the ceiling. Both men had a brace of functionaries with them to hold papers and to remind everyone how important they were.

  Crown Prince Albert sat alone in the middle of the table. He had a small leather notebook open in front of him. He held a pencil, ready to write.

  Aubrey was near the far end of the table. Still exhausted from his magical exertions, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and did his best to appear as if he belonged there.

  The Minister for Defence, a gnarled old man with remarkably blue eyes, cleared his throat and began to read from the Special Services official account of the Gallian airship disaster.

  Ten minutes later, Prince Albert rapped on the table. 'Mr Taylor?'

  The Minister raised his head. 'Your highness?'

  'We have all read the report. I don't think there is any need to read it to us again.'

  Sir Arthur nodded, and jutted forward his magnificently whiskered chin. 'I fully agree.'

  'Is there anything else that you wish the King to know?' Prince Albert said.

  Sir Arthur and Mr Taylor frowned at each other. 'It was no accident,' Sir Arthur finally said. Mr Taylor harrumphed, but didn't contradict him. 'The Gallian dirigible was brought down by sabotage.'

  'I see,' Prince Albert said.

  Aubrey straightened at this news. Interesting, he thought, and only realised that he'd made some sort of noise when Prince Albert glanced at him. They shared a look that Aubrey knew meant that the prince would want to discuss this matter with him later.

  Extremely interesting, Aubrey thought, and settled back in his chair.

  'The dirigible was a special experimental model. The Gallians sent it on a goodwill flight,' Sir Arthur added.

  'To cement Albion–Gallian relations,' Mr Taylor put in. 'A show of support for the treaty, as it were.'

  'Ah. Is Prime Minister Giraud feeling political pressure?' Prince Albert asked.

  'The Gallian government is not in a strong position,' Mr Taylor said. 'There is considerable unrest across the country.'

  'We must do what we can. Gallia is important to Albion.' The Prince stood, signalling the end of the meeting.

  After the Minister, Sir Arthur and the horde of functionaries filed out – with a minor standoff over precedence through the door – Aubrey shrugged. 'What do you make of it, Bertie?'

  'Hmm? 'The Prince blinked. 'Sorry, Aubrey, I was miles away.' He rubbed his hands together slowly. 'Thanks for coming at such short notice, by the way. Defence said His Majesty needed to be informed about this dirigible incident. That's when I decided I needed you here. Second opinion and all that.'

  Aubrey smiled and nodded. He was accustomed to acting as a royal sounding board, having grown up close to the Prince. His cousin Bertie had few people he could be frank with, and Aubrey felt privileged to be one of them.

  'Ah. And how is the King?' he asked.

  The Prince sighed. 'Father has had another turn, I'm afraid. He's quite unwell.'

  'So you're standing in for him. Again.' Aubrey chose his words carefully. 'Are you enjoying this role?'

  Bertie looked thoughtful. 'It's not a matter of enjoyment. It must be done, that's all.'

  'But wouldn't you rather be doing something else?'

  'That doesn't enter into it, I'm afraid.'

  Aubrey knew that his old friend was prepared to put duty above his personal desires. Aubrey had no doubt that Bertie was going to be a good king, but he often wondered what else he could have been. He was only a year older than Aubrey's seventeen, but in some ways he seemed to have skipped young adulthood and gone straight to serious middle age.

  'The dirigible incident,' Aubrey prompted.

  'Mmm. What can you tell me?'

  Aubrey shrugged. 'I'm assuming you read the report that Special Services made me write. I don't know what else to add.'

  'You didn't leave anything out? I've known you to be careful when recounting your adventures.'

  'Careful. I don't mind that as a description. It's so much better than "outrageously choosy".' Aubrey shook his head. 'No. I didn't hold anything back, this time.'

  The Prince nodded. 'The situation on the Continent is a worry.'

  'Do you think Holmland was responsible for the sabotage?'

  'It's the obvious conclusion. They would have the most to gain.' Prince Albert glanced at Aubrey. 'Do you have a moment, Aubrey? I have something else I'd like to discuss with you.'

  The Prince took Aubrey to a study. The south-facing room was light and airy; large windows overlooked a small garden, where a bed of hyacinths and jonquils grew against the red brick wall that was the rea
r end of the palace motorcar stable.

  Prince Albert sat in a plush velvet chair, put his chin on his fist and studied this scene for a while. Comfortable on a sofa, Aubrey waited patiently.

  'Genealogy, Aubrey,' the Prince said after some time. 'It's an obsession in our family. It's an obsession in all royal families.'

  'I suppose it would be. Lineage, lines of succession and all that.'

  'Exactly. In many ways, it defines who we are. My father is king because his father was king before him. I will become king for the same reason.'

  Aubrey didn't say anything. He knew Bertie well enough to understand that this statement of the obvious was leading up to something.

  'My father is unwell,' the Prince said. 'And his condition is getting worse.'

  Aubrey had some sympathy for the King's worsening madness, given his own trouble with a deteriorating condition. 'The doctors?'

  'They do what they can. Unfortunately, his body is declining as well as his mind.'

  'Ah. That's news.'

  'We try to keep it to ourselves. It's bad enough when the King becomes an object of derision. I don't want him to become an object of scorn.'

  'Not so,' Aubrey countered. 'He may have been mocked in the past, but now the public is sympathetic, toward both him and you. There's an enormous amount of affection for the royal family.'

  A smile touched the habitually serious features of the Crown Prince. 'You know the mood of the people so well, Aubrey? The world of politics is beckoning, it would seem.'

  'My father is Prime Minister. How could I be unaware of what's being said?'

  I think that was a reasonable deflection, Aubrey thought. Straight to the fine leg boundary for four runs.

  Bertie sat back. 'You're going to Lutetia soon, I hear.'

  'A holiday. A rest. A chance for some gloriously uneventful days in a charming city.'

  'Aubrey Fitzwilliam and uneventful days? From what I see, events have a habit of following you. Or do you instigate events to keep yourself entertained?'

  Aubrey spread his hands. 'I intend to enjoy myself, that's all.'

  'Very good.' The Prince nodded, as if reaching a decision. 'Aubrey, you're one of the people I trust most. You know that, don't you?'

  'What is this, Bertie? You sound ominous.'

  'I have a task for you, while you're in Lutetia. If you're willing.'

  'Of course.'

  'It is for me, but in the long run it may also prove to be for Albion.'

  'Out with it.'

  Prince Albert clasped his hands in front of him. 'My father's condition is likely to be hereditary. I may be susceptible to it myself. If I am, I need to know.'

  'Ah.' Aubrey grimaced. 'I didn't know that. I'm sorry to hear it, Bertie. Bad show.'

  The Prince nodded. For an instant, he looked pained, but he gathered himself. 'Thank you, Aubrey. I appreciate your concern.'

  'And I understand the sudden importance of genealogy,' Aubrey said.

  'Exactly. The madness does not strike every generation. My grandfather and his brothers were free of it. But where does it fall? How often? That's what I need to find out.'

  'And you think I can do that in Lutetia?'

  'My family has branches from all over the Continent. One significant twig goes back to Lutetia in the tenth century.'

  Aubrey groaned at the awful pun, and the Prince looked pleased. 'That's appalling, Bertie. One day your fondness for puns is going to bring you undone.'

  The Prince shrugged. 'A small weakness.'

  'Lutetia. The tenth century. You're talking about the Conquest.'

  'I attribute my stylishness to my Gallian blood,' the Prince said. He smiled wryly. 'But the family tree is a little murky at times.'

  'As all great family trees are.'

  'Indeed. There is the official story, and then there is the unofficial story. And that's where my interest lies.'

  Aubrey settled back in his chair. He grinned. 'I can see myself adding some tomb-spotting and graveyard rambles to my holiday itinerary.'

  'Would you, Aubrey? If it doesn't inconvenience you too much.'

  'I'd be happy to do it.'

  'I have some papers, some suggestions for you. You can pick them up on your way out.' The Prince stood and shook Aubrey's hand. 'This means a great deal to Albion.'

  'I'd do it for you, Bertie, let alone the nation.'

  'To Maidstone, sir?'

  Aubrey blinked. Stubbs, the driver, was looking at him in the rear vision mirror. Outside the car, two guardsmen held the palace gates open. 'No, Stubbs, let's not go home yet. I need to go to St Margaret's Hospital.'

  'Right you are, sir.'

  The matron at hospital reception glared at him when he fronted her desk. Aubrey didn't take it personally. It was probably her customary attitude. 'Captain Saltin is not to be disturbed,' she said after he explained the reason for his visit. 'He is still recovering from that awful dirigible crash.'

  'I won't be long,' Aubrey said. 'I'd just like to chat with him.'

  'He can chat when he's well again.'

  'And when will that be?'

  'I can't say.'

  'Then who can say?'

  'The doctors.'

  'Can I talk with the doctors then?'

  'No. They're busy.'

  Aubrey was about to give up in the face of such a formidable defence when a black-uniformed figure marched down the stairs and through the reception area. Aubrey waved and went after him. 'Captain Tallis!'

  The Special Services chief stopped. 'Ah, Fitzwilliam,' he said suspiciously. 'What are you doing here?'

  'I thought I'd see how our Gallian airman is.' He nodded toward the matron at the reception window. She was following their conversation and frowning. 'But I have substantial impediment.'

  'Why didn't you tell her that your father is Prime Minister? That should do the trick.'

  Aubrey smiled back at him. That's the last thing I'd do, he thought. If I can't manage by myself, I won't manage at all. 'I thought you could help me. You're providing a guard for Captain Saltin?'

  Captain Tallis studied him. Aubrey knew that the Special Services operative didn't have a high regard for him, summing him up as a rich and privileged busybody. While Aubrey couldn't do much about the rich and privileged part of that judgement, he thought that 'busybody' was going too far. 'Albion wouldn't want anything to happen to one of our allies,' Tallis said. 'We want him to be safe.'

  'I won't be long,' Aubrey said. 'And I guarantee I won't harm him.'

  Tallis grunted and marched to the reception desk. 'He's with me,' he said to the matron.

  'Is he really the Prime Minister's son?' she asked, eyes narrowed.

  'Oh yes,' Tallis said. 'He has a lot to live up to, doesn't he?'

  Aubrey winced. You don't have to tell me that, he thought.

  As they mounted the stairs, Tallis glanced at him. 'Have you seen that Miss Hepworth at all lately?'

  Aubrey nearly tripped at the unexpectedness of the question, but steadied himself on the handrail. 'Not often. She's been spending time with my mother, though, at the Albion Museum. She's become her assistant, helping with classifying specimens.'

  'She hasn't mentioned my offer, then?'

  Aubrey stared at him. 'What offer?'

  'I thought you knew. After that business with the Sorcerer Royal, I asked if she'd considered a career in the service.' He paused at the landing. 'Competent young lady. Without her, Dr Tremaine's plans to kill the King and throw us into war with Holmland might have succeeded.'

  Aubrey felt both irritated and pleased. Irritated because Tallis seemed determined to overlook Aubrey's part in preventing Dr Tremaine's mad plans, but pleased that the Special Services chief recognised Caroline's remarkable talents. Expert markswoman, ornithopter pilot and naturalist, as well as exceptionally talented at hand-to-hand combat, languages and dancing – he could see why Tallis thought she would be an asset.

  The Special Services operative outside the ward saluted Captain
Tallis and studied Aubrey closely. Inside, the sole occupant sat up in his bed and inspected them quizzically.

  'Saltin,' Tallis said. 'This is Mr Aubrey Fitzwilliam. He was the one who saved you.'

  'Fitzwilliam!' Captain Saltin said in accented Albionish. 'They told me what you did! I owe you my life! I am in your debt, forever!'

  The Gallian had lost his eyebrows in the blaze, but Aubrey noticed they were already starting to grow back, thick and black to match his moustache. 'I'm glad to see you're well.'

  'Well? I am alive, a second life you've given to me. Why would I not be well?' Saltin beamed. 'When I return to my home, I will tell my wife that we will name our firstborn child after you. The entire town of Chrétien will know of your deeds, then the province of Marchmaine, then the whole of Gallia!'

  Aubrey blushed. 'You don't have to do that.'

  Saltin went to jump out of his bed, but Tallis restrained him. 'But I want to,' the Gallian said. 'Aubrey Saltin will carry your name into the future!'

  'How long have you been in the Dirigible Corps?' Aubrey asked him, eager to change the subject.

  Half an hour later, his head was spinning with details of Gallia's dirigible program. It was only the appearance of worried nurses that put an end to the airman's passionate descriptions of water-ballast contingencies and keel-bracing materials.

  Leaving, Aubrey waved from the door. 'Visit me in Gallia,' Saltin called from his bed. The nurse at his side tried to thrust a thermometer into his mouth. 'Promise me you will.'

  'I may take you up on that,' Aubrey said, laughing. 'Good luck with the recovery.'

  Captain Tallis escorted Aubrey out of the hospital. 'Keep yourself out of trouble, Fitzwilliam, there's a good chap,' he said at the front door. A bus rumbled past advertising Evans Cocoa. 'Leave things to us.'

  The Oakleigh-Nash rolled up. Stubbs hurried to open the door for Aubrey. 'Thank you, Captain Tallis. I always do my best to stay out of trouble.'