Word of Honour Read online

  All this he had been able to sense quite quickly; the revelation was that the key was a spoken one.

  It was a crucial discovery, but it still left the doorway locked.

  The standard technique in these matters would be to construct a spell that would generate and articulate words, one at a time, until the correct one was stumbled upon. This also showed the limitations of brute force, as the process could take a lifetime or two.

  What Aubrey needed was a crib, a hint as to the type of key word that had been used. But where to start? Aubrey whirled, heart racing, and stared back along the tunnel. His silence had been suddenly interrupted by a short, sharp explosion. It was followed by a growl, a deep mechanical rattling which stuttered and cut off.

  Then all was quiet except for George's cursing.

  Aubrey was already racing towards the disturbance when he registered that George's swearing wasn't shocked or fearful. It was the heartfelt tone of voice he reserved for recalcitrant machinery.

  Rounding the corner, he slowed, both astonished and amused at the sight before him.

  George had his head and shoulders buried in the innards of the tunnelling machine so far it looked as if the contraption was eating him. Caroline was in the cabin, scowling at the instrument panel.

  Without removing his head, George flapped a hand.

  'Try again!'

  'Get out of the way first!' Caroline called.

  George straightened. He'd removed his jacket and he had a large grease smear on one cheek. He smiled at his friend. 'Aubrey, we've got this thing working –' The rest of his words were cut off by a deafening blast from the belly of the tunneller. Smoke erupted from a dozen different vibrating places. The whole thing shook like a volcano that had decided enough was enough and it really needed to clear its throat.

  George stood back, beaming. 'Splendid, what?'

  Aubrey was about to offer his congratulations when the tunneller coughed, missed more than a few strokes, and ground to a halt. George eyed it menacingly. 'Ghastly machine.' He glanced at Aubrey. 'I thought those printing presses were uncooperative. This thing makes them look as placid as a draught horse.'

  Caroline leaped down from the cabin. 'I think the fuel line might be choked, with all the rock dust that must have been flying around. Would you like me to check, George?'

  Aubrey finally found his words. 'How did you get it started?'

  Caroline frowned. 'What?'

  'It was locked. I checked it when we first found it. The ignition control was locked by the same sort of spell I'm grappling with up there.'

  'Oh that.' Caroline waved a hand with a gesture that was so elegant it would make a ballet master cry. 'It was a magical key lock, verbal.'

  Aubrey goggled.

  'I thought everyone knew that,' George said smugly.

  'Yes,' Caroline said. 'I would have thought you'd see that, with all your magical experience.'

  'Key. The key word.'

  'Yes, that's the nub of the problem, isn't it?' she said. 'Once I had it, the lock fell away and I could engage the ignition. Now, if only George can clear this fuel line . . .'

  'But how did you find out the key word? Luck?'

  'I don't trust to luck, Aubrey, you know that. It lets one down at the most awkward times.' She smiled, wickedly, and Aubrey saw how she'd been playing with him.

  'I apologise,' he said quickly.

  'What for?'

  'For whatever I've done to make you keep me in suspense like this.'

  'Oh, you've done nothing in particular. This time. Just keeping you on your toes.'

  'Consider my toes totally extended at all times. Now, can you tell me how you came up with the key word?'

  'It was written on a piece of paper pinned to the instrument panel.'

  Aubrey blinked. 'I may be forced to revise my estimate of our foe's omnipotence.'

  George shrugged. 'So he's forgetful. He can still be dangerous, you know.'

  'And what was the key word, out of interest?' Aubrey said.

  'It wasn't a word. It was a phrase.'

  'Good idea. Even harder to guess.'

  'Except if it's written down right in front of one,' George said.

  'Of course. And what was this phrase?'

  'The Lady of the Lake.'

  Aubrey narrowed his eyes and stared at the rocky roof overhead. 'The Lady of the Lake,' he repeated. 'It must mean something to him.'

  'Of course it does,' George said. 'It's the name of that show. He sings songs from it. I read about it in the newspaper:" A charming, romantic fantasy. "' 'An opera?'

  'Light opera,' Caroline said.

  'I thought it was an operetta,' George said, interested.

  'Regardless,' Aubrey said, 'Tremaine sings songs from it?'

  'In his stage show. As Spinetti.'

  Aubrey stood motionless as thoughts bounced around in his head. It could be the crib he was looking for. Music was apparently on Tremaine's mind – the reviews showed that he wasn't taking his role as a singer lightly. With his penchant for plots, counter-plots, false plots and plots that look like plots but are – underneath – schemes masquerading as plots, small things like key words could be hard to remember. What better way to remember them than to use something that was already on his mind?

  'Let's leave the tunneller for now,' Aubrey suggested.

  'I need your help to get into the Vault Room.'

  'Happy to.' George actually gave the tunneller a kick. It was a light one, but the machine boomed hollowly, as if remorseful.

  'How, Aubrey?' Caroline asked. 'Magic is your area of expertise, not ours.'

  'True, but between us we might have a good coverage of musical theatre.'

  Caroline's expression was a marvel of economy. In one tiny raising of her eyebrows, a hint of a twitch of the right corner of her lip and a slight, sceptical movement of her cheek, she managed to communicate that she had some doubts about Aubrey's sanity, but she was willing to go along with his suggestion because querying it now would result in a convoluted and long-winded attempt at explanation.

  George merely slipped his jacket on. 'Right you are. This way?'

  Half an hour later, they were all slumped around the false Old Man of Albion, defeated.

  'We've tried the names of operas.'Caroline rubbed her forehead. 'Gallian, and from every part of Italia.'

  George was sitting with his back to the rock. He had his eyes closed. 'We've tried light operas, operettas, comic operas, folk operas and every variation we could think of.'

  'We've tried the names of singers, composers, lyricists, arrangers and costumiers, 'Caroline said. 'Nothing's worked.'

  Aubrey was bone weary. He leaned, arms crossed on his chest, against the foundations. 'I know,' he said. He groaned. 'But we're close. I can feel it.'

  'I'm glad you can,' George said. 'Because all I feel is tired and sweaty.'

  Aubrey straightened. His eyes widened. 'Oh, for an extendable and flexible leg.'

  Caroline pointed at him. 'Clarity, please.'

  Aubrey touched the rock. The magic still hummed under his fingertips. 'I need an extendable and flexible leg to kick myself with.'

  'What have we missed?' she asked.

  'Holmland. Tremaine has been in Holmland for some time now. He must have been listening to Holmland music, Holmland operas.'

  'Holmland has operas?' George said.

  'Of a sort. Long, long musical dramas about destiny, the gods and heroism.' He turned to the rock. 'Siegfried's Sister.'

  The rock disappeared.

  While George scrambled to his feet, Aubrey couldn't keep a satisfied smile from his face. 'Schroeder's masterpiece,' he explained. 'A man searches for his long-lost sister, overcoming monsters, temptation and the irritating fact that the same stirring theme is played each time he strides onto the stage. It's become a point of national pride in Holmland to stage it on every conceivable occasion.'

  Aubrey paused. Sister? Had Tremaine seen some personal parallels in Siegfried's S
ister? Aubrey filed this one away for later consideration.

  Caroline bent and peered into the gap that had appeared in the wall of the foundations. 'It's overrated.

  Long, loud and laughable.'

  'You've seen Siegfried's Sister?' Aubrey asked.

  'My mother and father took me. While we were in Fisherberg.'

  Caroline had been in Holmland? Aubrey hadn't known that. He put it with all the other reasons to be impressed by Caroline Hepworth.

  Aubrey was first through after Caroline. Every sense was alert, and he carried an over-stoked traction engine in his chest where his heart had once been.

  Hissing came from the gaslights in wall sconces. They cast a gentle radiance on the waist-high stacks of metal bricks, making them gleam with a lustre that could be only one thing.

  'Gold,' he breathed, staggered by the sheer amount of it before him. Hundreds of bars of bullion beckoned to him, each with the unmistakeable stamp of the Bank of Albion.

  'Good Lord,' George said as he entered. His head moved slowly from side to side, surveying the field of gold.

  'Why isn't it in the actual vaults?' Caroline asked. She moved slowly in the Vault Room, with the reluctance of someone not wanting to disturb a pleasant dream.

  The massive doors to the inner vaults were closed. 'I don't know,' Aubrey said. 'All ready for the King to bless?'

  George squatted in front of the nearest pile. 'They're on trolleys. They're either going out of the vault or just going in. And I'll warrant that these chests are full of sovereigns.'

  Aubrey felt strangely reluctant to approach the gold. Instead, he stood and surveyed the scene, trying to ease the tension from his shoulders.

  His gaze fell on an ominous black box in the far corner of the vault. It was slim, featureless, about shoulder height, and it was so discreet that Aubrey had – at first – ignored it as a fixture of the room.

  Then he realised that an identical unit stood in the other corner.

  He took a step further into the vault and saw that the corners nearest him also sported the black boxes.

  While George and Caroline marvelled at the gold, picking up bars and exclaiming at their weight, Aubrey inspected the nearest of the black boxes. Then he had a thought. He took out his handkerchief and shook it. He plucked a simple spell from his memory, one of the first he'd ever learned, just after he'd turned ten. He spoke it softly, but clearly, and let go of the handkerchief.

  The spell cost him a bright bolt of pain right behind his forehead, but it worked. The handkerchief fell a little, then caught itself in mid-air. It twisted itself into a vaguely human shape – four limbs, a trunk, a head – and bobbed in the space between his two hands. It danced there for a moment, until he cancelled the spell.

  Aubrey glanced at the inert black boxes and stowed his handkerchief in his pocket. All is not as it seems, it seems. He shrugged. With Dr Tremaine involved, why would he expect any different?

  'No time for party tricks, old man,' George called. 'Come and look at the riches of Albion.'

  Aubrey strolled over, humming something remotely Holmlandish. 'We have a mystery here.'

  Caroline raised an eyebrow. 'Of course. Why should the vault of the Bank of Albion be any different to everywhere else we've visited?'

  Aubrey pointed to the black boxes in the corners of the vault. 'Those units are magic suppressors.'

  'Like the Great Manfred had for his stage act?' George said. 'Good show. Should stop any magical mischief around here.'

  Caroline said nothing. She merely pointed to the gaping hole in the wall. George scratched his chin. 'Or not, as the case may be.'

  They both looked at Aubrey.

  'I tried some small magic, something that should have been impossible within the anti-magic field, but it worked.'

  'The magic suppressors aren't active?' George said.

  'What's this mean?' Caroline said.

  'I think it important to find out,' Aubrey said. 'George, do you still have that pry bar?'

  Some muscle work later, Aubrey was convinced. The magic suppressor had been tampered with.

  Inside the slim black box were three separate compartments. Each was sealed, but proved to be no match for George's handy implement. The top compartment was full of components that looked like the interior of a radio – valves and wires, wrapped tightly in rubberised cloth. The middle compartment was a solid block of a hard, black ceramic. The bottom compartment was the largest, and contained four metal bars that stretched from the top of the compartment to the bottom. When Aubrey touched one of the bars, it vibrated. An instant later, the other three bars began to vibrate in sympathy.

  'But you say it's not working?' Caroline said.

  'No. All the components look whole and complete, but something is missing.'

  'Or tampered with,' George suggested.

  'Rokeby-Taylor's company makes these,' Aubrey said. 'Why does that prompt suspicion?'

  'The units are sealed,' Caroline said. 'If an outsider had tampered with these things, the evidence would be obvious.'

  'But if the tampering were done at the factory? They would seem to be one thing, and actually be another.' Such a state of affairs was not unusual where Dr Tremaine was concerned. Aubrey's gaze fell on the astounding collection of gold. Frowning, he approached the nearest chest and opened it. Hundreds of sovereigns glinted back at him.

  He guessed that the Vault Room held enough gold to finance a moderately-sized nation. 'Dr Tremaine wants to steal the gold.'

  'Well, he won't succeed,' George declared. 'Not now that we've found the back door he organised.'

  'No.' Aubrey wasn't convinced. 'A Holmlandish battleship is sailing for Fisherberg later this week.'

  'Elektor's birthday,' George said. 'The Imperator must be there for that.'

  'With a few tons of gold in its hold?' Caroline wondered.

  'And the Rashid Stone, don't forget,' Aubrey said.

  'So Dr Tremaine planned to get all this gold out of here, through the tunnels and down to the docks? Incredible.' George shook his head. 'What an outcry that would make.'

  'Outcry?' Aubrey said. 'It certainly would. Scandal, uproar, outrage. Messy, but not crippling.'

  'Not crippling?' Caroline said. 'All this gold vanishing?'

  'Probably not. The empire could cope. It might even unite the country, especially since it could be seen as a direct insult to the King, his not being able to complete one of our traditions.'Aubrey picked up one of the sovereigns.

  He'd been expecting the weight of it, but it still took him by surprise. It was unexpectedly warm, too, quite unlike holding a similar silver or copper coin.

  He hefted the coin and then replaced it in the chest.

  'I wonder,' he said, then he paused.

  'That's quite dramatic enough a pause,' Caroline said, tapping her foot. 'Finish your sentence.'

  He swept a hand over the stacks of gold. 'I wonder if this is gold at all.'

  Silence.

  'If it's not gold,' George said eventually, 'it's a very convincing substitute.'

  'Exactly. Surely you've heard of fairy gold?'

  'Fairy gold?' Caroline said. 'It's a fairy story.'

  'It's an example of life imitating art,' Aubrey said, slipping into his instructional mode. 'The Holmlanders, especially, have been fascinated by magic stories for children, handed down over the generations. Some of their researchers have been studying these stories to see if there are any truths to be found. A few years ago, Professor Esselbach in Vessenheim managed to establish a spell that – for all intents and purposes – mimicked that of fairy gold.'

  'What?' George said. 'Something that looks like gold, but vanishes in the bearer's pocket?'

  'Esselbach drew on the Law of Similarity and the Law of Permanence. His gold looked like gold, felt like gold, but after a pre-determined period of time, it evaporated and left nothing behind.'

  'Nice party trick,' George said.

  'With some practical applications I can thi
nk of,' Caroline said.

  'Imagine what would happen to the economy of Albion,' Aubrey said, 'if fairy gold was distributed throughout the land. Especially after the King had laid his hands on it.'

  George's eyes widened. 'I wouldn't like to be the shopkeeper who opened his till to find his sovereigns gone.'

  'It's more than that,' Caroline said slowly. 'Once suspicions are roused about the genuineness of the currency, it could cause financial instability. A run on the banks, at the very least, I'd say.'

  'Lovely mischief-making for an enemy power,' Aubrey said. 'It would slow down our economy dreadfully. Much more than a simple theft of bullion.'

  George slapped his pry bar in his palm. 'And it'd put a brake on our armament program. Especially our shipbuilding.'

  'And if Dr Tremaine could somehow get the real gold into the hold of the Imperator, it would be a double win for Holmland.' Aubrey chewed his lip. With Dr Tremaine's penchant for plots within plots, he wouldn't be surprised if some of the gold went missing on its way to the docks. Dr Tremaine had never been known for frugal living.

  'And is it fairy gold?' George asked. 'How can you tell?'

  'That's the point,' Aubrey said. 'You can't.' He scooped up some sovereigns and poured them from hand to hand. 'Without magic.'

  Caroline crossed her arms. 'Go to it, then.'

  Aubrey dropped all the sovereigns but one. He held it close, examining its inscription, the portrait of the King, the slightly grainy sheen of gold. He flipped it and it spun, catching the gaslight. Deftly, he caught it in his palm and covered it with his other hand.

  He closed his eyes and extended his magical awareness.

  There, he thought. A faint, tell-tale quality that spoke of a magical rather than a natural origin. It was like a hint of a scent, a tickling greenish smell with the distinctive, veiled signature of the enemy.

  He opened his eyes. 'It's not real. And it was conjured up by Dr Tremaine.'

  Caroline glanced at the gold with some disappointment. ' Oh.'

  'What is it?'

  'What would be worse than fairy gold crippling our economy?'