Twenty

LADY FITZWILLIAM OFFERED MRS HEPWORTH A PLACE to stay for the night. After some discussion, she agreed. Aubrey watched as they went up the stairs. 'And so to the Mire,' he said to Caroline and George.

'The Mire, at midnight?' Caroline shook her head. 'We must be on our mettle.'

'Even on our mettle, we need some help.'

'Jack Figg?' George said.

'Yes. And it's time for Tommy Sparks, too.'

George grimaced and glanced at Caroline. 'You think that's wise?'

'We can't go looking like this. Tommy's well known. He moves easily through the Mire.'

Caroline crossed her arms and glared. 'I refuse to go any further until you two stop speaking in riddles.'

Aubrey considered this. 'Perhaps we need to show you what we're about.'

While Caroline and George waited, Aubrey went to his dressing room. His heart was beating faster. He found the box at the rear of an upper shelf.

Tommy Sparks was inside.

A bowler hat with a frayed brim and scuffed crown. A long, patched jacket which had once been brown. Flannel trousers. Boots with new soles, but holes in the uppers.

As Aubrey put on this disreputable costume, he felt the thrill of release, becoming Tommy Sparks. Being this rogue gave him the chance to escape from the responsibilities of being Aubrey Fitzwilliam, once heir to the Duchy of Brayshire.

He changed his posture. He dropped his shoulders a little and pushed his chin forward, enough to alter his profile but not enough to appear exaggerated or grotesque. Inside his boots, he shifted his weight so he was standing slightly on his toes. When he looked in the mirror he saw someone who wasn't Aubrey Fitzwilliam.

Instead, he saw a street scrounger who mixed with barge folk, pilgrims, dock workers, costermongers and beggars, someone who listened to gossip and rumours, who tried to divine the mood of the people. He grinned. 'What a 'andsome chap,' he said aloud. He slipped easily into Tommy Sparks's voice, slightly higher pitched than his usual. He tipped his hat and sidled out of the dressing room to find Caroline and George.

They were in Lady Fitzwilliam's drawing room. George rose when Aubrey entered, but Caroline remained seated. She frowned.

'Hullo, miss!' Aubrey tipped his hat, then stuck his thumbs in the rope belt around his waist. 'Tommy Sparks, at your service.'

George smiled. 'Miss Caroline Hepworth, meet Tommy Sparks. Tommy Sparks, Miss Caroline Hepworth.'

Caroline scowled. 'This is what you need to take us to the Mire? This pantomime creature?'

Aubrey staggered back a step or two in mock horror. 'Wounded, I am, wounded to the 'eart! The lovely Miss Hepworth finks I'm nothing but a creature!'

'Settle down, Aubrey,' George said. 'Save the performance for the streets.'

Aubrey coughed and shook himself. 'Sorry,' he said, with his normal voice. It took an effort, as if Tommy didn't want to leave. 'Tommy does tend to take over.'

'I see,' Caroline said.

Aubrey massaged his neck. 'And you mustn't call me Aubrey when I've put on Tommy Sparks. No-one in the Mire knows me as Aubrey.'

Caroline nodded. 'This Tommy isn't inconspicuous, is he?' She raised an eyebrow. 'And he's a little forward.'

Aubrey took off his hat and studied its brim. 'Ah, yes. He tends to be like that. Especially with the ladies. He's quite a favourite.'

'I can imagine,' Caroline said dryly.

'And what about us, Aubrey?' George said.

Aubrey grinned, but this time it was not a Tommy Sparks grin. 'Wait here.'

He came back with two costumes.

'You want me to be a beggar,' Caroline said. Her voice was flat. She held up a ragged dress that looked as if Aubrey had plucked it from the gutter.

George screwed up his face. 'Me too? A beggar?'

'It's an excellent disguise. You and George can pretend to be mutes, which isn't unusual in the Mire. Beggars can go anywhere. People see the rags, not the person. They won't remember you.'

George shook his beggar's clothes. 'No fleas?'

'No. Just lice.'

George dropped the rags and took a step back. 'Lice!'

'I was joking.'

'I hope so,' Caroline muttered.

'Trust me,' Aubrey said. 'They look dirty, but they're actually quite clean.'

Caroline looked at him. 'Why do you have women's clothes?'

Aubrey felt his cheeks flaming. 'Well, just in case, you know. I've had them for ages. It's the sort of thing I collect, for study, you know . . .'

'You're babbling again, Aubrey.'

'Ah.'

George laughed. 'You've used those clothes, haven't you, Aubrey? You've dressed as a woman beggar!'

'Not for some time, I haven't.' He stopped. 'That is to say . . .'

Caroline stood. 'No need to be embarrassed. It makes good sense. I'm pleased to hear that you're not trapped into old-fashioned thinking. Now, where can I get changed?'

Aubrey showed Caroline and George to spare rooms, then went back to his own, wondering what sort of preparations would be useful. In the end, he stuffed an assortment of bottles, powders, scraps of paper and other possibilities in the capacious pockets of his coat. For a moment, he studied the mess of papers and books on one of his tables. It was the latest stage of his research, which had been extending in many directions. He'd been making an effort to bring his findings together, to take stock of possible remedies for his condition. Some were desperate, some were most unlikely, but he did have one that looked as if it could do something for him. He'd teased it out, refining it and eventually constructing a spell, but he'd shied away from it. It was rough, crude, and not without its dangers. It needed testing, developing, work. He rubbed his forehead. Time. I need more time.

George entered the room. He wore trousers that were torn off just below the knee. His shirt and jacket were threadbare. Jammed on his head was a hat that looked like a pie that had been stepped on. He was not smiling. 'I feel foolish.'

'Don't worry, George. No-one will notice you.' Aubrey tucked a feather in his pocket and looked around, wondering what else he should take.

George cleared his throat. 'That Caroline . . .'

Aubrey looked up. 'Yes, George?'

'Very capable young woman, wouldn't you say? Resourceful, clever?'

'Hmm. I thought she daunted you? You've changed your tune.'

George shrugged. 'Presentable, too. In a stylish way.'

'What are you getting at, George? Has she piqued your interest?'

'Not my type, old man. Or rather, I doubt that I'm her type. She doesn't need a plodder like me.'

'Then what is it?'

'I just wanted to make sure you realised she was your type.'

Aubrey didn't have time to answer. Caroline joined them before he could extract more from George on this issue. She stood unselfconsciously in her beggar's rags. 'Well?'

Aubrey studied her. The dress dragged on the ground, billowing around her. The collar had been torn off, leaving a frayed edge. The sleeves were much too long and Caroline had pushed them up. This made her forearms look enormous and puffy. Her hat had once been a collection of colourful fabric flowers, but was now a brown mess. To Aubrey's eye, there was no possibility of mistaking her for a beggar, but he hoped that the darkness would obscure Caroline's extraordinary features.

'Your posture is too good. Slump your shoulders and stoop a little. You too, George.'

'Better?' Caroline asked. She hunched, letting her head fall forward.

'It's uncomfortable,' George complained.

'You'll get used to it. Now, George, tangle your hair and smear on some of this.'

Aubrey gave a small pot to Caroline. She unscrewed the lid. 'Makeup.'

'False dirt and grime. It's quite convincing.'

Soon, Aubrey was faced by two convincing beggars. In the dark, at least, he thought. At a distance. 'Good enough,' he declared. 'Are you ready?'

'Ready enough,' George said.

'Yes,' Caroline said.

'Let's go, then.'

AUBREY FELT THE CHILL AS SOON AS HE STEPPED OUTSIDE. Rain was on the way.

The constellations were difficult to see behind the blanket of fog and smoke that hung over the city, but occasionally a star would appear and stare down at the unlikely trio.

First, Aubrey led them towards the river. They soon left Fielding Cross behind as they worked their way deeper into the bowels of the city. Gone were the sounds of the occasional piano in a parlour. Instead they had the shifting chorus of noise: guard dogs, pub brawls, clattering machinery, running water and indistinct caterwauling in the night.

They made their way through Newpike, the Narrows, Royland Rise and Downmarsh. They skirted braziers surrounded by sooty-faced men and crossed train tracks. Drizzle began to fall when they reached Little Pickling. The tang of burning coal, hot asphalt and rotting wood dampened and changed, becoming both more diffuse and more challenging.

After about an hour, through rain that grew heavier, they came to the Crozier district. Aubrey strode along Hayholt Street, waving at the few skulking passers-by. He skipped across a gutter that ran thick with refuse and turned down Creeland Lane. Sagging brick buildings looked as if they were held up by the many posters from the Army of New Albion which, in badly spelt and very large letters, denounced the King as a foreign puppet. He stopped at the only dwelling that showed a light. Grinning, he pounded on the door.

It swung open and a tall, thin young man stood there. He wore round spectacles and fingerless gloves. He had a pencil behind each ear; they stuck through a thatch of brown hair. Two cats were at his feet and they stared evenly at the visitors.

'Jack Figg!' Aubrey crowed. 'Aren't you going to ask us in? It's wet enough to drown a duck out here!'

Jack Figg didn't say anything. He nodded, stood back and allowed them to enter the tiny room.

A large, battered desk took up one entire wall. Papers and pamphlets were piled up high on it. They also stood in shaky piles to either side, next to four wooden crates and the only chair in the room. When the door was closed, Jack Figg stood and crossed his arms. 'I'm honoured,' he said mildly. He glanced at Caroline and George. 'Have you brought some poor souls who need help?'

Aubrey ran a hand over his face and sighed. He put Tommy Sparks away for a while. 'Hello, Jack. Things are moving apace.' He waved at his beggar friends. 'This is Miss Caroline Hepworth and George Doyle, whom you've met before, when he was a little better dressed.'

Jack shook hands with George. 'Good to see you again, Doyle.' He bowed to Caroline. 'Miss Hepworth. You wouldn't, by any chance, be related to Ophelia Hepworth?'

Caroline smiled. 'She's my mother.'

'Ah! One of my favourite artists. I think her Adonis at Bay is the lushest painting I've seen.' He frowned. 'She's much undervalued.'

'Yes,' Caroline said. 'You saw her work at the Academy?'

'Charlie, the nightwatchman, is a friend of mine. I see most of the Academy's exhibitions after dark. It's not ideal, I grant you. I'd prefer to see them with natural light. But the Academy has a habit of turning away riffraff like me.'

Aubrey watched this with interest. 'I hate to interrupt,' he broke in, 'but we have more important matters to discuss.'

'Take a seat,' Jack waved a hand, 'or a crate. I hope you can tell me what's going on around here.'

'What do you mean?' Aubrey asked.

'Strange times, at the moment. Lots of unrest.'

'Such as?' George asked.

Jack frowned. 'I haven't seen so many agitators at work for a long time. They're haranguing, hanging posters, encouraging people to disobey authorities, calling for war, warning against war . . . And so many pamphlets!' He gestured at his own. 'Mine are getting lost in the avalanche at the moment.'

'Ah,' Aubrey said.

'And hotheads are getting organised, too, recruiting members, looking out for mischief to do. The Army of New Albion, the Patriot League, the Reformists.' He shook his head. 'It's making the struggle even harder.'

Aubrey wondered how much of this was the doing of the Holmlanders. Stirring up the masses was a useful tactic before a war.

'Jack,' he said, 'we need to go to the Mire. The burnt church.'

Jack lifted an eyebrow. 'The burnt church? Well, that's interesting. You're the second person today who's talked of the burnt church.'

'Who's the other?'

Jack looked at his hands in his lap. 'You know how I work. I don't give the name of my informants or my comrades in the struggle.'

'This is important, Jack,' Aubrey said. His face was serious. 'The fate of the country is at stake.'

Jack snorted. 'Well now, you can understand how that makes me bleed inside, seeing as how this country has been responsible for the plight of the working class.' He stood. 'Do you know how many babies die in this neighbourhood before they're six months old? D'you know how many children leave school before they're ten, just so they can earn some money to help feed the family?'

Aubrey reached out and put a hand on Jack's arm. 'I do know,' he murmured. 'Remember?'

Jack blinked, then laughed a little, embarrassed. 'You caught me making a speech.'

'You don't need much encouragement.'

'No, I don't suppose I do.' Jack sighed. 'Aubrey actually does understand the way things are,' he said to Caroline and George. 'If it weren't for him and his family, there'd be no medical care in this whole part of the city.'

Aubrey groaned. 'Jack.'

'It's true. The Broad Street Clinic is funded by your family, thanks to you.'

Caroline looked at Aubrey. He shrugged. 'Jack showed me the sights when I first came down here. I realised something had to be done. If we waited for the authorities to act, we'd still be waiting at the end of time.'

'That's the truth,' Jack said. 'Well, I've been reminded of my obligation. What was it you wanted to know?'

'Not through obligation, Jack,' Aubrey insisted. 'But because it's the right thing to do. My father's disappeared and we're trying to find him.'

Jack lifted his head. 'Why didn't you say so? Sir Darius gone? How can I help?'

'You said someone today mentioned the burnt church,' Caroline said.

'A friend of mine. A Holmlander.'

At the three-way intake of breath, Jack crossed his arms and looked defiant. 'Yes, a Holmlander. I'm not afraid to admit I have Holmland friends. Workers across the world are united in their struggle. We don't see nationality as important.'

'It's not that, Jack,' Aubrey said. 'It's just that Holmlanders could be involved in this matter.'

'Sir Darius's disappearance?'

'And other associated intrigues. How long have you known your Holmlander friend?'

'A few years. He travels a lot, he tells me. He goes back to Holmland and then returns here. He's an organiser.'

'I'm sure he is,' George said. 'And what else does he tell you?'

Jack frowned. 'He told me that he's on the run from the authorities. They want to stop his activities. Another example of the state trying to crush the workers.'

'You'd be hiding him, then?' Aubrey said. He kept his tone neutral.

'In a manner of speaking. He's safe.'

Aubrey grinned and a little of Tommy Sparks crept into his voice. 'Come now, Jack. You'll have to do better than that. We're very interested in talking to this fellow.'

'You can't. When he found out where the burnt church was, he left.'

Aubrey studied Jack. His friend was a committed man, dedicated to improving the lot of people around him. He'd educated himself through books he'd managed to put his hands on and it was his fierce, untutored intellect that led him to write and print pamphlets aimed at rousing the masses.

His greatest flaw was, however, that he was too trusting. Aubrey remembered the last time he'd seen von Stralick. The Holmlander had been wounded in the confrontation at the Society for Non-magical Fitness.

'And did you get medical help for him? Head wounds can be messy,' Aubrey asked.

'He didn't need it. Most of his ear was missing, good and clean. A plaster stopped the bleeding.'

'So it was von Stralick you were sheltering,' George blurted.

Jack looked defiant. 'He's a good man.'

'It doesn't matter,' Aubrey said.

'We need to get to the burnt church,' Caroline said, echoing his thoughts. 'Quickly.'

Jack looked at Aubrey, who nodded. 'It's very important.'

Jack did not move for some time, then he lifted his head. 'You're sure this is for a good cause?'

'On my honour,' Aubrey said.

'I'll take you, then. But I think it may be wise to get someone to come along with us.' Jack fetched a coat and a long scarf, which he wound around his neck. 'Follow me.'

The rain had grown heavier and was hammering on roofs, making a noise like hissing drumbeats, all out of rhythm. As they walked through the flooded streets, Aubrey began to feel the night pressing in around him. The thoroughfares grew narrower, buildings crowding on either side. Shadowy figures, solitary or in small groups, flitted through the wet, never talking, never acknowledging each other.

The rain lessened and turned into fog, then back again to rain. They trod along an old towpath beside a canal that had become a communal dumping ground. It was choked with ash, chunks of concrete and stone, household refuse and dead animals, and was heavy with the stink of decay.

Jack Figg led them under a road bridge, then through an abandoned factory that now seemed to be the home for a thousand people. By the light of a few guttering fires, they wound their way through the piles of rags that were sleeping men and women. Moans, the cries of babies and the deep, phlegmy cough of the terminally tubercular were the accompaniment to their night journey.

Aubrey clutched his coat shut as they stepped through this nightmare. When he emerged once more into the drizzle, he tilted his head and let the rain run over his face. He glanced at George and Caroline and saw their dazed expressions. 'Many people live like that,' he murmured.

'It's inhuman,' Caroline said.

Jack shook his head. 'They're as human as you, Miss Hepworth. They're just struggling to live, that's all.' He jabbed a finger at the factory. 'They say there's a war coming, but I've been fighting a war for years. A war against that.'

They walked on in silence. Jack brought them to the remains of a small quarry where brickworkers had long ago given up on scraping out more clay. It formed a bank, along the top of which ran a railway. The bottom of the quarry was a heap of scrap iron and timber.

Jack took a length of iron from the heap and banged on a rusty oil drum.

A slab of timber lifted and fell aside to reveal a hole. Faint music rose from it and Aubrey smelt an odd mixture of soap and cloves

A huge, bald head poked up. A huge neck followed, then a mighty pair of shoulders. 'Jack?' said a voice like thunder.

'Hullo, Oscar,' Jack said. 'I've got some friends who need to go to the burnt church.'

'The Mire?' Like a whale sounding, a vast white shape emerged from the debris. 'Righto, then.'

When Oscar dragged himself from the rubble and stood, Aubrey realised that he was the biggest man he'd ever seen.

He was at least seven feet tall, but his bulk made him look even taller. He rolled as he walked, settling each foot on the ground as if unsure it would support him. Aubrey could only see his legs from the knees downwards, so immense was his belly. His bald head was round and enormous, but smooth and unmarked like a baby's. The rain rolled off his naked scalp. He wore a robe-like garment, made of old hessian bags, and he carried a large, empty sack slung over his shoulder. His feet were bare, and Aubrey guessed it was because he'd couldn't find shoes to fit.

Oscar smiled and took a step forward. 'Who are you, then?' His voice was a basso profundo, a voice that could have come from deep in the earth.

Aubrey couldn't help myself. He took a step back.

Jack interposed himself. 'Oscar, these are my friends. I want you to take care of them.'

Oscar stopped, smiled once more and stared. Again, Aubrey was reminded of a baby and he wondered how old Oscar was. 'Righto, then. Friends.'

Without another word, the giant heaved his bulk around and waddled off. Aubrey and the others stared at his mighty back.

Jack chuckled. 'You're not the only one with interesting friends, Aubrey. No-one will bother us with Oscar along for the ride.'

'I can believe that,' Caroline said. 'Who is he?'

They set off. 'I don't know, and neither does he,' Jack said. 'I found him a few years ago. He was in a cellar, naked and afraid. He was about half his current size, but had no idea how he got there or who he was. I cared for him until he was capable of managing for himself. He's still growing, you know.'

George steadied a plank and they crossed a noxious pool. 'Still growing? But he's a monster!'

'I fear that may be right,' Aubrey said. He leapt off the plank. 'There's magic involved, isn't there, Jack?'

Jack sighed and patted Oscar, who towered above him. 'Things happen in this part of the city that you wouldn't believe,' he said. 'It's a desperate place. People do things to survive.'

Caroline looked at Oscar, pity in her eyes. 'What happened to him?'

'If a magician needs a human subject, they always come to this part of the city. I can't say for certain, but Oscar could have been someone's idea of an experiment. Perhaps it went wrong. Perhaps it had the desired effect. I can't say.'

'Sometimes people volunteer,' Aubrey said. 'For a pound or two, it doesn't matter how ghastly the proposed experiment is, someone will step forward.'

Caroline touched Oscar on the arm. 'Is that what happened to you?'

'I don't know.' He smiled.

'He has a music box,' Jack said. 'He makes enough money as a bodyguard and labourer to feed himself. He's happy enough.'

'Are you?' Caroline asked the giant.

Oscar smiled again. 'I don't know.' He lifted his arms and dropped them to his sides. 'Righto, then.'

Oscar turned and climbed up a muddy slope, littered with broken bottles. He waited beside a tumbledown fence and called to them. 'Righto, then. Nearly there.'

Jack puffed up the slope, reached his gigantic friend and patted him on the hand.

Aubrey slipped as he clambered up the slope. George grabbed his arm, digging his boots into the mud and steadying them both. He dragged Aubrey up, then reached out and helped Caroline. With George's solid strength, they were able to reach the deserted road where Jack and Oscar stood. The uneven cobblestones were slick where the rain had melted whatever ordure and filth had gathered there. A single street light hissed, shedding a sickly yellow glow that made urinous streaks along the surface of the road.

Jack pointed towards it. 'The Mire.'

The Mire had the narrow streets and uneven cobbles of the other districts they'd passed through. The two- or three-storey houses leaned against each other, as if they'd had a very fine night out. Slate roofs were slick with rain, but few boasted functional gutters, so water cascaded in waterfall-sized torrents to the stones below.

Aubrey paused. Even at this distance the Mire sounded distinctive. It was noisy, with the sounds of music, shouting and general carousing, a good-natured happiness that had been absent from the tired and despondent districts they'd been through. As they turned corners, they began to run into more people. Hurrying, staggering, crawling, running, chasing, darting people.

The Mire. Aubrey grinned. It might be grubby, but it has energy.

When they plunged into the Mire, passing through a narrow lane that was flanked by two competing taverns, it became obvious that not all the passers-by were poor. Three well-dressed men walked past, flanked by two scowling bodyguards. Two of the men seemed to be enjoying themselves, but the third had an expression of barely controlled terror on his face.

Despite his Tommy Sparks persona, Aubrey was glad for Oscar's presence. They kept close by the massive giant like pilot fish around a great whale. He rolled along the cracked and uneven pavement, his head turning from side to side, constantly smiling.

'Don't look about too much,' Aubrey urged his friends as they passed an oyster shop where a brawl was sending bleary-eyed patrons into the streets amid a hail of shells, cheering and abuse. 'Act as if you know your business, that you belong here.' He grinned as he walked, letting everyone know that this was the most natural place in the world for him to be.

A woman leaned out of a second-storey window. Her hair was fiery red and her dress was made of purple velvet. 'Tommy!' she sang out. 'Tommy!'

Aubrey waved and threw her a kiss. Then he saw both Caroline and George staring at him. 'Ah, yes. Irene Dubois. Ballet dancer. Loves it here.' He turned and waved again, but the woman had vanished.

Humanity swirled around them and Aubrey revelled in the way that the strange mingled with the ordinary. He saw a casual assault as a pedestrian had a bag dragged over his head before being whisked away. A few moments later, he saw a woman with snakes for arms wrap them around the neck of a sailor and haul him in through an open window. The sailor was laughing.

The crowd thickened and Oscar surged ahead. Light spilled out onto the pavement from an upper-storey window and the sound of a badly tuned but enthusiastically played piano accompanied singing that Aubrey was sure was inspired by alcohol, not talent.

He had a feeling that they were walking in a gigantic spiral, always bearing left at intersections, making their way through the riot that was the Mire. He glanced up, looking for landmarks. They were passing a pair of narrow whitewashed buildings, three storeys high. Aubrey shepherded his friends back just in time to miss being hit by a deluge of foul-smelling liquid.

George shook a fist at the wild-haired, cackling figures leaning out over the edge of the roof. 'I say!' he began, but Aubrey tugged his sleeve.

'Walk on, George.'

'What?'

'Look around. No-one else has even noticed. If you get angry, our friends up there will feel they've scored a victory. And don't even think of charging up there to berate them. They'll have clubs, sticks and hard fists and will be happy to relieve you of any valuables.'

George snorted, but Aubrey was pleased to see that his friend kept an eye on the rooflines as they pushed through the chattering throng.

They passed a gap in a row of houses where one dwelling had sagged even more than its neighbours and had collapsed. Opportunities like this were never missed in the Mire, and a wrestling tent had been erected on the ruins. Oil lamps blazed outside and a line of excited customers snaked into the entrance, while an organ-grinder entertained them with sounds that were somewhat like music, just not as tuneful. The tout at the front of the tent took one look at Oscar and shook his head. He was a small, bald-headed man with narrow eyes and a voice that could saw through glass. 'Sorry, friend. I know the sign says "£10 If You Stay In The Ring For One Round With Our Champion" but you're not what we were expecting.'

Oscar just smiled. 'Righto,' he said and sailed onwards, the others with him.

The Mire invigorated Aubrey. He loved its diversity, its life and the sheer unexpectedness that lay around every corner. It let him see another aspect of life in Albion. Rogues and saints rubbed shoulders in the Mire, as did honour and disgrace, charity and theft, hope and despair, all in a single square mile.

They went on until the crowds dwindled and the lights began to grow fewer. Aubrey noticed more and more deserted buildings, more actual ruins, not as many places of music and light. The rain began to fall heavily again and he held his coat closed as best he could. Water dripped from the frayed brim of his bowler hat.

The street ended with two mounds of rubble, one on either side. It then gave out onto a large open space, a hundred yards or more across, sloping upwards. In the darkness Aubrey could see the familiar maze of stone, stunted trees, and mounds of shattered masonry, the wilderness that surrounded the ruins that had once been St Agnes' Cathedral.

Once upon a time, the cathedral must have been a proud sight, crowning the top of the hill, looking over the city towards the other high points – Stoweside, Royal Park, Calmia. It would have been majestic.

Now, all he could see was the shell of the cathedral dark against the night, standing alone on the top of the hill like an abandoned sentinel. One wall was almost intact, reaching skywards, arched gaps that were once stained-glass windows. The other walls had fallen in the fire. Two pillars had miraculously survived, while the rest were mere stubs in what had been the nave.

Aubrey knew the cathedral graveyard was still there. It was a jumble of fallen headstones and the remains of tombs on the far side of the hill. He was glad they didn't have to go through it. Despite the rain and the years, the smell of ash and burnt wood was heavy in the air. He frowned as his magical awareness came across traces of magic everywhere he looked. It was blurred and indistinct and he couldn't tell if the magic was recent or the remnants from years of foul experiments.

'Righto, then,' Oscar announced. 'Burnt church.'

Rain sluiced down the gutters and poured off the rooftops around them. Aubrey was wet through. Caroline and George were both sodden. George looked irritated, but Caroline was calm, gazing towards their destination. 'Lights,' she said.

Aubrey turned and saw glimmers of light in the wilderness, small pinpricks of red, orange and yellow. 'We oughtn't run into anyone out there,' he said, thinking of the experimental outcasts, 'but we must be on our guard. We don't know how many Holmlanders will be appearing.'

Jack moved until he was standing with his back against the remains of a wall. 'What are you going to do now?'

'A meeting is going to take place here at midnight. What time is it now?'

Jack consulted a battered pocket watch. 'Half past eleven.'

'Plenty of time.' Aubrey looked at Oscar. 'Can he remain behind? He's a little conspicuous.'

Jack frowned. 'He can, but is it safe without him?'

'We'll move more quickly alone.'

'Oscar,' Caroline said. He looked down at her and smiled. 'Will you be all right if you stay here?'

'Yes.' He reached out with a meaty hand and – very gently – patted Caroline on the head.

'What about you, Jack?' Aubrey asked. 'Will you come or would you prefer to stay?'

'I should stay with Oscar. He's not used to being out alone at night.'

'Keep well hidden,' Aubrey said.

'I will.' Jack stopped, staring over Aubrey's shoulder. 'Someone's out there.'

Aubrey looked in the direction of his gaze and saw someone flitting from shadow to shadow.

'Damn him,' George said through gritted teeth. 'It looks like von Stralick. He has a rifle.'

'Are you sure?' Caroline asked. The rain was getting harder.

Aubrey reached into his pouch and pulled out a rough circle of enchanted glass. He closed one eye and held it to the other. 'It's definitely von Stralick. He has a bandage on the side of his head. He seems to be alone.'

'Why does he have a rifle?' Caroline wondered. 'What's he after?'

'Protection?' Jack suggested. 'We brought Oscar, he brought a rifle.'

'But why a rifle?' George said. 'That's a marksman's tool, not for self-defence.'

'There's one way to find out,' Aubrey said. 'Let's see what he's up to.' He gazed towards the ruins. 'George, you take point position. Stay fifteen, twenty yards in front. Caroline, you next. I shall come last, slightly off to your left.'

It was by the book. Or, at least, by the teachings of the Scholar Tan. But I have something good old Scholar Tan didn't, Aubrey thought. He took a pouch out of an inner pocket of his jacket.

'Before we set off,' Aubrey said to Caroline and George, 'there's something I need to do.'

After the incident at the shooting weekend, Aubrey had devoted some research time to the magic behind the clay golem assassin. He hadn't been able to determine exactly how to animate and control such an intricate creature, but he had established a spell for making a less sophisticated version.

'I thought we might need some scouts,' he said, and took a lump of clay out of a pouch in his pocket.

Caroline and George watched, fascinated, as Aubrey took the fist of clay and worked it between his hands. Muttering the spell he had rehearsed, Aubrey broke off a piece the size of a pea. With deft movements, he fashioned it into a rough human shape – two arms, two legs, a featureless head. Then, with care, he used his fingernail to inscribe a symbol on its blank forehead. He pronounced a short, sharp spell over it.

When Aubrey placed the mannikin on the wet ground, it quivered.

'Good Lord,' George whispered.

The mannikin swelled, its rough arms and legs becoming smoother, growing larger until it was the size of a thumb. It bent in the middle, sitting up. Then it popped to its feet and stood, swaying slightly.

While this was happening, Aubrey had fashioned another. He continued to work the lump of clay, breaking pieces off, making figures, inscribing symbols, repeating the spell. He was applying a number of laws – Symmetry, Contiguity, Action at a Distance, Sympathy – in a novel way. It was challenging.

In a short space of time, a dozen mannikins were standing in a line, arms outstretched like faceless gingerbread men.

Aubrey took a deep breath. 'Go. Observe. Report back to me.'

The three-inch-tall mannikins trembled, then dispersed, running stiff-legged into the darkness, splashing through puddles and wading through mud.

Caroline nodded. 'Clever.'

Aubrey was aware enough to be amused at how much he appreciated the comment. Then he simply enjoyed it, even though the magical effort had sapped him. 'It's an experiment. They're simple things, and their vocabulary is very limited. Let's see what happens. If they bring back some intelligence, it may be invaluable. If they don't . . .' He shrugged.

Caroline pointed. 'Look.' Von Stralick was darting up the slope, veering from side to side as he sprinted towards the ruined cathedral.

'He's making use of cover,' Aubrey commented, 'not running in a direct line, in case someone is watching him. He's experienced.'

'We can catch him,' Caroline said.

Aubrey glanced at her. Eyes bright, she looked eager, unafraid. No-one could mistake her for a beggar, Aubrey thought. What was I thinking?

George squinted and scanned the terrain ahead. 'I can't see him. He must have entered the cathedral.'

Caroline frowned. 'Making for a rendezvous?'

'No doubt.'

Aubrey glanced at George. 'Forward, then.'

George, as point man, went first. He disappeared into the darkness.

Caroline went next, then Aubrey. The ground underfoot was wet but hard, which made the going slippery. He angled towards a clump of bushes, edged around them, then ran from tree to tree, hunched over, until he reached a mound of broken bricks. Panting, he sat with his back to the rubble. His stomach felt hollow and he paused, gathering himself. While he consolidated his strength, he looked at the view.

From this vantage point, the city was laid out around him, glittering like a million stars, each light the result of ingenuity and application, meant for holding back the night, but without realising what a fairyland they would create. Incidental beauty, unmarred by forced design. He shook his head in wonder.

Movement in the wilderness caught his eye. At first, he assumed it was Caroline or George, but he realised that this movement was some distance away. For a moment he wondered if he'd leap-frogged von Stralick and moved ahead of him, but he discarded this idea. He could see that, whoever it was, he was making his way through the graveyard on the other side of the hill.

Aubrey took out his enchanted-glass viewer and peered through it.

The stranger flitted from tombstone to tombstone, keeping low to the ground. Aubrey found it hard to fix on him. His gaze shifted and slipped, sliding off the blurry form, after which it took him some effort to find him again. The intruder was indistinct, almost as if he were wrapped up in a cloud of shadows. It was like searching for hidden figures in one of the pictures he'd enjoyed as a child.

Interesting, Aubrey thought, and he felt the distant tang of magic. Now he was aware of the phenomenon, he scanned as much of the slope as he could. He felt chill when his gaze lighted on three other shadowed figures.

He jumped as someone emerged from the night. 'Aubrey,' Caroline whispered and she glided to his side.

A moment later, George joined them. 'I scouted ahead. The way is clear, right up to the ruins.'

Aubrey pointed, doing his best to track one of the ghostly visitors as it darted towards the remains of a tomb.

George whistled soundlessly. 'Quite a popular place, St Agnes', tonight.'

'Who are they?' Caroline whispered.

'No idea,' Aubrey said. 'But there's magic involved. See if you can follow their progress for more than a few yards.'

Caroline peered towards the church grounds. After a moment, she frowned. 'How odd. It's hard to keep my eye on them.'

'That's high-level magic, providing such stealthy masking,' Aubrey said.

'Who could it be?' George asked.

'A fine question,' Aubrey said, frowning as he considered the possibilites. 'Are these the Holmlanders? Or someone else . . .'

A rough voice cut through the night. 'All right, you three. Don't move.'

Aubrey started to get to his feet, but before he could move the ominous sound of a revolver being cocked came from the darkness.

'Don't try it.'

Two men scrambled over the broken masonry. One was tall and wearing a dark cutaway jacket and a bowler hat. Water dripped from every hem, edge and cuff and his scowl seemed as much directed at the rain as at what he'd found. The other wore a heavy overcoat and cloth cap. He was the one wielding the revolver, which he kept moving, unsure of where to aim.

'Damn! I thought they were beggars, but they're not,' the taller man said. 'It's youngsters.'

'What do we do now?' the other man said. The pistol jiggled as he sought guidance from his partner. Aubrey tried to lean away.

'Damn, damn, damn!' The taller man spat on the ground and looked around.' We can't stay here. Bring them.'

'Get up,' the pistol-wielder snapped.

Aubrey rose. They didn't sound like Holmlanders. What were they doing here?

'Move it. That way.'

They were herded towards the burnt church and urged through a gap in the broken wall.

It was an immense space. St Agnes' had been enormous, large enough to hold a coronation. The hard stone floor was empty except for rubble and the few burnt timbers that were either too large or too ruined to be scavenged.

They were marched along the length of the nave, towards the apse where the altar would once have been. The two side wings of the transept, intersecting the nave, extended to either side. Aubrey could almost see the worshippers filling the great space, the priests leading the procession.

'Stop there,' pistol-wielder said and Aubrey's vision of the cathedral of long ago vanished. 'Turn around.'

The taller man ran the palms of his hands against his jacket. 'I wish you three hadn't come here.'

'So do we,' Aubrey said. 'Let us go and we won't come back.'

The taller man looked pained. 'I'd like to, son, but we can't operate like that. Things are too serious.'

'We won't tell anyone,' Caroline said. Aubrey saw her inching closer to the man with the pistol. She held her hands out as if pleading, but Aubrey could see the tensing of her body and the way she balanced on the balls of her feet.

'Easy, now,' the pistol-wielder said. He took a step back.

'It's not our decision,' the taller man said, appealing for understanding. 'We'll have to see what the others say.'

He knelt and picked up a fist-sized piece of stone. He banged it against the floor three times.

Aubrey's eyes widened as a floor stone creaked upwards. A lantern, a pistol and a face appeared. The face was long and thin, adorned with a drooping forked moustache. The man looked like a walrus rising through a hole in the ice. 'Ames? Briggs? You saw the message?'

'Aye, it's us, Holroyd,' the pistol-wielder said. He glanced at his partner. 'Ames, steady the trapdoor.'

Ames, the taller man, seized the stone and assisted those below in lifting it. Briggs, the pistol-wielder, gestured with his head. 'Now, you three, down you go.'

Ames leaned towards the hole. 'We've got three prisoners coming down, Holroyd.'

He stood aside and Briggs waved them towards the ladder. Aubrey looked at both of them. 'Are you sure you want to do this?'

'Get moving,' Briggs growled.

Aubrey shrugged and climbed down the ladder. Caroline, her face set in hard lines, went next. George was last.

The soft light of the lantern lit a long, narrow space. The walls and the floor were made of tightly fitting stone blocks. The walrus-moustached Holroyd stood at one end, holding a lantern. He looked dismayed. Two other men stood behind him and murmured to each other. 'This way,' Holroyd managed. 'Mind your step.'

This courtesy, more than anything, convinced Aubrey that they were in the hands of amateurs. That worried him. He'd rather they were professionals. Professionals were steady, predictable. Amateurs were usually inexperienced. They could do anything.

He leaned against the stone wall. His heart was hammering and he felt cold sweat all over his body. He needed to rest.

Behind him, Ames and Briggs clattered down the ladder. Together, they eased the trapdoor shut.

They marched down the passage for ten yards before it opened into a chamber about five yards square. Lanterns hung from brackets, lighting the space and the table and chairs that were arranged in the middle of it. The passage continued on the other side of the chamber, stairs disappearing into darkness.

Ames and Briggs put their heads together and muttered, while Holroyd and the nameless two others watched their prisoners. They appeared to reach a decision. Briggs gave the pistol to Ames, took a lantern from the wall and disappeared down the stairs.

'Where are we?' George asked Aubrey.

He looked around. 'I can't see any tombs or coffins, but it must be the crypt. Perhaps the remains were removed.'

'No talking,' Ames growled. He brandished his revolver.

Briggs reappeared with a coil of rope over his shoulder. 'Sit down,' he said and he handed the rope to Holroyd. 'Tie them back to back.'

'The girl too?'

'Yes.'

Holroyd was firm without being cruel. He bound them with the experience of someone who has worked with ropes all his life, with hard, flat knots well out of reach.

When Holroyd was done, Aubrey sagged against George. Immediately, he could feel his friend flexing his muscles, working against the bonds. Aubrey was sure that George was strong enough to stretch the ropes and slip out, but it would take time, something he was sure was in short supply.

George nudged him and he jerked his head upright. 'Sorry.'

'You're unwell?'

'Not the best.'

Aubrey felt Caroline's slender strength next to him and she, too, was carefully working against her bonds. 'Are you sick?' she asked.

'Not exactly.'

Holroyd frowned. He crouched and held a lantern close to Aubrey's face. His eyes went wide. 'I thought I recognised him.'

'What is it?' Ames said. 'Holroyd, what're you carrying on about?'

Holroyd straightened. He pointed at Aubrey. 'The lad. I've seen him before, better dressed than that. He's Sir Darius's son.'

'No,' Ames said. Briggs looked startled and stared at Aubrey.

'What are we going to do?' Briggs said. He looked at Aubrey as if he were an unexploded bomb.

'Down the stairs,' Ames said. 'We need to discuss this.'

Briggs, Holroyd and the two others followed Ames into a deeper part of the crypt, grumbling.

'What next?' Caroline said. She didn't sound frightened. She sounded calculating.

'It's not good, I'm afraid,' Aubrey said. 'They're using their names. That either means that they don't think it'll do us any good to know who they are, or that they're careless. Either way, we're in a situation.'

'Who are these men?'

'Well, they're not Holmlanders,' Aubrey said. 'And that makes things very complicated.'

'How so?' Caroline asked.

'Where's von Stralick? Where are the rest of the Holmlanders? And what of the magically shrouded newcomers we saw? These men are a third party.' He shook his head. 'Too many variables here.'

Footsteps and the bobbing light of the lantern in the passage announced the return of their captors. None of them looked happy but Ames had put away his pistol, for which Aubrey was grateful.

Holroyd puffed air through his moustache and frowned. He looked to his colleagues and they waved him forward. 'This is very complicated,' he said.

'We were just saying that,' Aubrey said in a weary voice.

'It's not your presence, actually, that's the worst thing. It's who you are.'

'My father's son,' Aubrey said.

'Exactly.'

Holroyd wiped his hands together. 'Great man, your father. The hope of the country.'

Aubrey blinked. 'I beg your pardon?'

'He's the only one who knows what's good for the country, he does. Not afraid to speak his mind, either.'

Aubrey had heard these sort of reverential tones before. 'You served with him, didn't you?'

Holroyd looked thoughtful. 'In the Mataboro conflict. I was a sapper attached to his regiment. I never heard him give an order for something he wasn't prepared to do himself. When I was doing earthworks, demolitions, he made me show him how to lay a charge, the burn rates for fuses, things like that. Good man, he was, for an officer.'

Caroline had had enough. 'Exactly who are you? What are you doing here?'

Holroyd's eyes darted from side to side, to his coconspirators.

Briggs stepped forward. 'We are the Army of New Albion, the true patriots of this benighted nation.'

Aubrey's brain was racing, trying to fit this new piece of intelligence into the puzzle. The Army of New Albion? What were they doing here?

'War is in the wind,' Holroyd said. 'Holmland aggression has made that clear.'

'Not to mention the growth in their military,' Briggs added. 'Their navy's doubled in size in the last three years. The sinking of the Osprey was a test of their new naval strength.'

'And it's obvious that Holmland sees Albion as the only real opponent to their plans for an empire,' Holroyd continued.

Aubrey nodded, hoping to encourage them to talk, even though they weren't saying anything new. The more they talked, the more likely it was that they would say something useful – and the more time George would have to work free.

'But this country has grown soft,' Ames said, his eyes narrow. 'Too many appeasers, too many who are prepared to give in, to turn a blind eye to those onion-eating scum.'

'The Prime Minister,' Briggs said.

'The King,' Holroyd added. He crouched in front of Aubrey. 'They're not like your father, lad. He's the man we need in charge of this country. He won't put up with the antics of the Holmlanders. He'd show them that Albion isn't a nation of weaklings and cowards. He'd stand up to them.'

'I see,' Aubrey said, when it seemed as if an answer was expected. He wondered if he should tell them of the disappearance of his father, but decided to keep that one to himself for the moment.

Briggs shook his head. 'He should still be Prime Minister, he should.'

Ames snarled again. 'That Armitage, I never trusted him.'

Holroyd looked worried, plucked at his moustache and glanced at his colleagues. As he did, Aubrey realised that these men were desperate. They might not be hardened criminals, but they had the air of people who had committed themselves to drastic action, even at great personal cost. They had the look of the fanatic about them.

His growing sense of optimism was doused by this thought. Fanatics had a habit of not being worried about their welfare, or of those around them, as long as it advanced their cause. It could explain why they were so forthcoming with their explanations.

Holroyd glanced at his colleague. 'Steady, Ames, steady.'

Ames whirled and thrust his face in Holroyd's. 'I've had enough of steady! Steady isn't going to save this country! It's action that's needed!'

Holroyd held up his hands palms outwards and spoke softly, as if to an angry dog. 'Of course, of course. That's why we're here tonight, remember? Planning, final details, timing.'

Briggs glanced at Aubrey. 'Lad, how'd you like to see your father leading this country again?'

'He will. After the election.'

Ames laughed savagely. 'Not a chance. The King's all but given the Prime Minister his blessing. The Holmlanders are telling everyone how impressed they are with our PM. Your father's reputation is being torn down. It's all cosy and wrapped up for the Royalists.'

Holroyd seemed uncertain where this conversation was going, but he didn't interrupt.

'What if,' Briggs said, 'the King and the PM weren't around any more? That'd put Prince Albert on the throne – and he and your dad get along like a house on fire. No more cosy Holmland-loving statements coming from the palace. We'd have strength instead of weakness.'

'The King's not a proper Albionite anyway,' Ames spat. 'He's Holmlander through and through. He deserves to die.'

The chamber was silent after Ames's venom. Finally, Aubrey spoke up. 'How many relatives did you lose when the Osprey was sunk?'

Ames stiffened. Briggs took him by the arm. 'We all lost people to those treacherous Holmlanders,' he said. 'I lost a cousin, same as Holroyd. Ames lost two brothers. Stokers, they were. Never had a chance when the ship sank.'

Ames's face contorted with anger. 'And Rollo Armitage and his cronies just caved in. Accepted the apologies and pretended all was well. Traitors. They deserve some of their own medicine and we're going to give it to them!'

Holroyd nodded. 'It's time to act. Things are getting dangerous for us. We were lucky to avoid the authorities up in Greythorn last week.' He sighed. 'You called this meeting to check our preparations, Ames?'

Ames looked startled. 'I thought the message was from you.'

They both looked at Briggs. He shook his head. 'Wasn't me. You told me about the meeting, Ames.'

Caroline had been silent for some time, but Aubrey had felt her tensing. She coughed a little and leaned close to him. 'Get ready,' she breathed.

Aubrey didn't have time to wonder what she meant. She rose to her feet in one sinuous action, casting the rope aside.

Holroyd, Briggs and Ames stared, Ames fumbling for his revolver. The other two had their backs to her. 'Now, lass,' Holroyd said, 'you don't want to get hurt.'

'No,' Caroline said and then she sprang. Ames didn't have a chance to move. Caroline kicked the revolver out of his hand and struck him in the mid-section with the flat of her hand. He collapsed, gasping for air.

George threw off the last of the ropes and launched himself at Holroyd, who back-pedalled frantically, arms whirling, only to run into a roundhouse kick from Caroline. He staggered against the wall, knocked his head against the stone, and slid to the floor.

Caroline twisted and dropped into a crouch. One leg shot out and she spun around, sweeping the nameless two off their feet. They fell into a tangled heap. Caroline straightened up, balanced on her toes, but the men simply lay there, staring at her. Aubrey wanted to applaud, but instead he dragged himself to his feet.

'All right, love, all right,' Briggs said nervously. He eyed the revolver on the floor, but instead shuffled over to Ames and prodded him with a foot. 'Get up. Let's get out of here.'

'What about them?' Ames snarled. He was still holding his midriff. Aubrey wondered if Caroline had broken a rib for him.

'Leave them,' Holroyd said, tottering over. 'You won't say anything, will you, lad? We're just trying to do the right thing for the country. And your old dad.'

Aubrey decided to throw in his ace while they were off balance. It might turn up something useful. 'He's missing,' he said. 'Someone's kidnapped him.'

Holroyd's face fell. 'That's not good.'

'Holmlanders have taken him,' Ames snarled. 'We have to move, fast!'

'We'll do what we can to help him,' Holroyd said. 'All right, lad?'

Aubrey was silent. Holroyd seemed satisfied with this. Briggs picked up a chair and jabbed it at Caroline, then he held it in front of him as they backed out of the chamber. There was a boom as the stone trapdoor opened, and the Army of New Albion were on their way.

The noise echoed in Aubrey's skull and he felt as if were about to vomit. His knees were weak and a vast, rushing noise was in his ears. The effort of the spell-casting and the tense situation were combining to fray at his physical condition. He was deteriorating, and the call of the true death was growing stronger. 'Dangerous men,' he whispered to George, who had put an arm under his shoulders to support him.

'What?'

'Grief, fanaticism, stupidity and a cause. Explosive mixture.'

'Is he all right?' Caroline asked George.

'No. We have to get him home. He needs rest.'

An unmistakable sound rang out and Aubrey's head jerked up.

'Rifle shot,' George said.

Caroline raced for the ladder and Aubrey was left with George.

Another shot sounded.

'That will be von Stralick, I'd expect,' Aubrey whispered. He closed his eyes and sought for strength.

'I'd say so. How do you feel?'

'Barely holding myself together. It's got worse.'

'Be strong. It'll be all right.'

Aubrey opened one eye and looked at his friend. 'You always say that.'

'Well, I'm a very positive person.'

'Wait a moment,' Aubrey said. He bent his head. He was trembling, drained. The tugging at his soul was sharp and painful. It felt as if it would be dragged out of his body at any time. He doubted he had the strength to resist it.

Two more shots cracked.

Trapped, with a gunfight going on over our heads, he thought. Father missing, the King about to be killed. I suppose I have no time to waste.

He attempted a grin, but it wouldn't work properly. He motioned to George.

'Yes, old man?'

'George.' Aubrey sought for words, but they all seemed cheap and theatrical. 'Go and see what's going on.'

Aubrey watched his friend go to the foot of the ladder where Caroline was crouching. Dim light was coming from the open trapdoor.

He was left with no choice. He had to use an untested spell. Of course, an untested spell had placed him in this parlous situation . . .

He would not allow himself to make the same mistakes he had then. This spell might be untested, but it would be rigorous. It was raw and unrefined, but he had hopes that it might derive power from this crudity.

The aim of the spell was to bind his soul to his body again, to bring them back to their natural state of unification. If successful, it should shield him from death's untimely call. He could not afford, however, to sever the golden cord that led through the portal to the other side. To restore himself fully, he needed to learn how to recall the cord and close death's door. This was beyond him at the present.

The spell used elements he'd rephrased into a modern terminology of his own invention. Some were derived from the spell he had used for the fly that spied on his father. Others came from his death magic research. The whole expression was unique, and the final signature element indicated this. Aubrey hoped he'd be proud of it. If it worked, it would do more than stabilise his condition, it would give him some important results towards establishing a new language for magic.

He dropped his head and closed his eyes. He relaxed as much as he could. He began.

He spoke barely above a whisper, hardly moving his lips. This made crisp pronunciation even more difficult, but he felt the syllables rolling out with precision and clarity, with no slurring. Each element fell into place as if it was meant to be there. The transitions between each element were perfect, neither stretched nor condensed.

In a surprisingly short time, it was done. When he uttered the final syllable, it was like dropping a stone into a bucket of water. Ripples spread outwards through his body, reaching a boundary where they rebounded and rolled inwards again. In an instant, he felt as if his entire being was humming, vibrating faster and faster. He opened his eyes and everything was blurred. Inwardly, he continued to shake more and more until he felt as if he were going to fly apart.

Suddenly, stillness. Aubrey took a long, deep breath. He was still there. The spell had worked. He felt strong, stronger than he had for some time. His head was clear. He got to his feet and joined Caroline and George at the ladder. 'What's out there?'

'It's hard to see,' Caroline said, coming back down. 'Too many shadows. I couldn't see the sniper. Holroyd and the others are scattered around the church, hugging the walls, trying to guess where the shots are coming from.'

'What can we do?' George asked.

Aubrey considered. 'The right moment will present itself if we are ready for it.' He grinned. It was the sort of thing the Scholar Tan would say.

He glanced at the trapdoor at the exact moment a bolt of violent purple light burst through it. He threw up an arm and closed his eyes, but purple and green flashes danced underneath his eyelids. His skin prickled unbearably as a boom and a high-pitched hiss rolled down from overhead, followed by shouts and screams.

He opened his eyes gingerly, to see Caroline and George doing the same. George was slapping dust off his beggar's rags.

'We have our distraction,' Aubrey said.

He bolted up the ladder and out through the trapdoor, not giving himself time to think. He threw himself onto his belly and tried to take in his surroundings.

Dozens of globes of light were hovering in the body of the church – purple, red and gold. They varied in size from marbles to footballs and were darting at the members of the Army of New Albion. Another cluster was swooping upwards like a flock of birds.

Magic, Aubrey thought as his skin itched.

Ames was standing in the middle of the nave. He was flailing his arms and screaming. 'Rats! Get them off me! Rats!'

Holroyd was hunched against the wall, as if trying to make himself as small as possible. His shrieks made the hair stand up on the back of Aubrey's neck.

Nearby, another man lay. Blood was streaming from a shoulder wound, but his curses and demands for assistance indicated that he was another member of the Army of New Albion, and still among the living.

Briggs was trapped in the middle of a flock of globes, running for his life along the length of the nave. He turned his head to see if he was being followed and ran into one of the pillars. He toppled like a tree and didn't move.

Aubrey winced as three rifle shots cracked flat and hard. Ames danced on his toes. 'Rats!' he screamed. 'The rats are everywhere!'

Caroline surged up the ladder. She threw herself next to Aubrey and George was at their side an instant later. Together, they scrambled into a tangle of rubbish and rubble. It offered concealment and a wide view of the extraordinary events unfolding in the ruins.

'Rifle?' George asked, panting.

'I saw a flash. Coming from there, I think.' Aubrey pointed at the pile of broken masonry in the remaining corner of the ruin, where the flock of globes was congregating. They flew past, darting in and out like hungry seagulls.

'Von Stralick?' Caroline said.

'I'd say so. He's after Holroyd and his friends.' Aubrey pointed. 'But he looks trapped up there now. Not by Holroyd's crew, though. There's no magic about them.' He gnawed his lip. They really should withdraw while they could. Their position was safe, but for how long?

'Then who's controlling those globes?' Caroline asked.

'I'm not sure. George, do you have the pistol Ames dropped?'

'No, old man. I couldn't find it.' George looked pale, but calm. 'Might've been useful.'

At that moment, a giant voice rolled into the burnt church. 'THROW AWAY YOUR WEAPONS AND COME OUT. YOU ARE OUTNUMBERED AND OUTPOSITIONED. THROW AWAY YOUR WEAPONS AND COME OUT.'

Aubrey recognised the voice. 'Craddock,' he said. 'The shrouded figures we saw must have been the Magisterium. Those magical globes would be their work.' Aubrey shook his head. How did the Magisterium fit into this?

The coloured globes clustered together and began to quiver. Slowly, they faded and vanished. A score or more black-garbed figures entered the ruined cathedral, vaulting over the crumbled wall, stepping through the gaps, and scrambling over falls of stone.

Holroyd's wails grew louder and even less coherent. Ames stared wildly around, no doubt wondering where the rats had gone. Then he gaped at the black figures.

'SURRENDER!' came Craddock's magically inflated voice.

Aubrey tensed. He could feel something, deep in his bones. It grated, made his teeth ache. His neck prickled, then began to burn. Someone was preparing to cast potent magic, with a distinctive nature he'd felt before. 'Someone else is here,' he muttered.

George stared around the burnt church. 'Who?'

'I'm not sure,' Aubrey said, but the magic in the air reminded him of that which had animated the assassin golem, which had begun the chain of events that had brought them here.

The floor started to vibrate.

Caroline looked at Aubrey, but he frowned and shook his head. 'I have no idea.' He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Common sense suggested that it was a good time to slip away, while the Magisterium was busy with rounding up the would-be regicides. But this new magical presence was intriguing.

'This way,' he said, and crept towards what could once have been a balcony supporting a choir stall but was now a pile of rubble. He heard Caroline's exasperated sigh, but when he glanced over his shoulder both she and George were following.

The stones were solidly lodged against each other, having been too large to cart away easily. They proved to be easy to scale and provided good cover. Aubrey hauled himself up until he was able to lie flat in the shadow of a cracked slab of marble.

Holroyd and the others had been cornered by the thirty or forty black-clad Magisterium operatives and a few others, whom Aubrey recognised as Special Services agents. The fight seemed to have gone out of the Army of New Albion and they stood with heads down, shoulders sagging. Aubrey saw Craddock standing on the side, allowing the Special Services agents to conduct the arrest. Craddock was scanning the burnt church, one long finger lying along his cheek, his entire posture suggesting he was ill at ease.

Then the night was torn apart.

At first it was a single note, then a collection of deep, sonorous sounds, as if the largest organ in creation had all stops pulled out and all keys depressed at once. Aubrey clapped his hands to his ears. Perhaps we should have left, after all, he thought.

Somewhere nearby, stone crashed to the ground. George stifled an oath and stared about, wildly. Caroline's eyes narrowed. She looked poised, taut, ready to move in any direction.

Holroyd shrieked. He shot out his arm and pointed. 'They've come!' he screamed over the blast of noise that swelled, peaked and then started to subside.

Aubrey stared. Ghostly forms were rising through the stones.

Skeletal, mortified, gruesome, with remnants of ragged clothes, they drifted upwards until free of the stone. Aubrey could see through them as they floated, bony fingers by their sides. Their eyes were black and empty. Dozens, then hundreds of the spectres emerged from the stone until the ruined cathedral was filled with a ghastly congregation.

At the sight of the apparitions, the Magisterium operatives stumbled back, before grouping together under Craddock's barked instructions and presenting a united front. Chanting rose from their formation and the coloured globes reappeared, hurtling at the apparitions.

This seemed to spur the spectres into action. A wild, wordless chorus went up from them, then they raised their bony hands and surged towards the Magisterium operatives.

'Look,' whispered Caroline. 'Holroyd and the others have gone.'

'Where's von Stralick?' Aubrey wondered.

'If he has any sense, he'll leave while he can. And I think we should take the opportunity too,' Caroline said.

Aubrey grinned. 'After you.'

The apparitions closed with the Magisterium operatives, who seemed dismayed that the coloured globes had no effect on them. They fell back and began to resort to other measures – conjurations of half-visible creatures, ear-splitting lightning bolts, gusts of cold and heat, spatters of light that made Aubrey's eyes hurt.

One of the operatives was gripped by a spectre, but the ghost was slashed away by something that swooped in a blur of motion, a small, black, deadly shape.

George gripped Aubrey's arm. 'Did you see that?'

'No.'

'I did,' Caroline said. She stared at Aubrey. 'It was the same as in Father's workshop.'

George's face was grim. 'The Magisterium is using shades? Then could they be the ones responsible for your father's death, for the golem, everything that's happened?'

Aubrey chewed his lip. Craddock's motives had never been easy to discern. Could he be weaving a subtle web with the aim of achieving power unparalleled in Albion?

He shook his head. Craddock did not seem ambitious for power and status, not like so many others Aubrey had seen. Not like the Prime Minister. Not like the Foreign Secretary. It had to be someone else.

'We mustn't jump to conclusions,' he finally said. 'For a start, we can't assume that the Magisterium was behind the shade in Professor Hepworth's workshop.'

George looked frustrated, but there was no time to argue as their attention was drawn back to the nave of the church. The apparitions were slowly being annihilated by the Magisterium operatives. Bolts of magic were shredding the spectres, but they had managed to injure three or four operatives, who were slumped with their backs to the cracked base of the pillar.

But Aubrey's attention was caught by movement at the top of the pillar. Watching from this precarious vantage point was a man, but a man shrouded in magic so as to hide his identity. It was like looking through poorly made glass for, while the figure was tantalisingly apparent, Aubrey could make out nothing distinctive at all, except that the mysterious watcher seemed to be holding a stick in one hand. Aubrey frowned. Or was it a wand? Could someone have found a genuine magic wand?

This watcher was surrounded by a dozen or more shades, but he paid little attention to them even though they were attacking, slicing towards him before veering off. Aubrey saw one skim too close. The watcher slapped at it almost absently, backhanding it into oblivion. The shade folded in on itself and vanished.

The watcher leaned forward, studying the Magisterium operatives clustered at the base of the pillar. Aubrey could feel the power emanating from him. He had used potent spells to raise the spectral horde, combinations of approaches that Aubrey had never thought possible. The spells were audacious, full of bravado, and Aubrey realised the watcher was using them again. More apparitions rose from the floor of the burnt church and shambled to reinforce the dwindling ranks of their fellows, but the watcher was not content with this show of power. Aubrey gasped as, with almost scornful ease, the watcher called a rain of fire down on the hapless Magisterium operatives.

Aubrey knew, in theory at least, how difficult such a spell was. Uniting water and fire required such a strong application of the Law of Opposites that few seriously considered attempting it. Even experimenting with such a spell required an ego far beyond that of commonplace magicians.

With a hissing, crackling roar, the liquid fire cascaded down on the Magisterium operatives but, just before they were enveloped in the blazing torrent, a protective dome sprang up, neatly shielding them from fiery death. Aubrey was impressed by the training and teamwork that had allowed the operatives to respond so quickly.

He felt a tug on his sleeve. 'We should go,' George whispered.

Aubrey sighed, nodded, and allowed Caroline to lead them away from the magical battle. She made good use of cover, moving from shadow to niche, always avoiding open ground. Aubrey struggled to keep up with her decisive progress. The ruins were lit up by the rain of fire and the magical bolts that pierced it as the Magisterium fought back, sending shadows dancing across the crumbling stonework. Aubrey took a last look at the watcher. He was standing on top of the pillar, hands on hips, and Aubrey had the distinct impression he was laughing.

Who was he?

IT TOOK THEM SOME TIME, BUT THEY MANAGED TO LEAVE THE ruins and stagger back to where they'd left Jack and Oscar. Behind them, the burnt church was a riot of hurtful light, strange smells and cries that did not belong in this world.

From out of the darkness and the rain, Jack Figg's voice greeted them. 'Glad you're back. We've got a surprise for you.'

When they drew closer, Aubrey saw that Jack was standing next to a horse and cart. The driver was a small, dark man, who tipped his cloth cap to Caroline and gave a lopsided grin as water poured from the brim.

'Charlie will take us back to my place,' Jack said, 'and then he'll forget he ever saw us. Right, Charlie?'

The driver waved a hand and mumbled. It sounded as if he had a doormat stuck in his throat. He jerked his thumb at the rear of the cart and Aubrey didn't need a second invitation. He dragged himself aboard, watching as Caroline vaulted in with the grace of a dancer.

'Where's Oscar?' George asked when he'd settled on the rough, wet timber and the cart set off with a jerk. The horse glumly splashed its way through an enormous puddle.

Jack was sitting next to the driver. 'That's the other part of the surprise,' he said over his shoulder. 'Some speed please, Charlie. It's best to be well away from here.'

The driver growled at the horse. Immediately, it lurched forward over the uneven cobblestones, picking up pace until the cart was bouncing along, every jolt making Aubrey's head ache. He screwed up his face and peered through the wind-whipped rain.

Charlie obviously knew the best routes. The cart slid wildly around corners, clattered down narrow laneways and along noisome drains, but never had to stop for traffic. Aubrey clutched the side of the cart with a strength that surprised him and he wondered what would happen if a pedestrian staggered out of one of the many doors they passed.

Charlie had some difficulty getting his horse to stop. It appeared as if the nag had enjoyed the exercise. It looked almost disappointed when the cart rolled to a halt outside Jack's hovel. The light from the single window showed that someone was inside.

Jack climbed down from the cart. George helped Aubrey, while Caroline alighted and patted the horse on the flank. It turned its head and stared at her quizzically.

'Thanks, Charlie,' Jack said, but the enigmatic driver was already moving off through the rain without a word or a backward glance.

'A good man,' Jack said. 'His wife was very ill until your clinic helped her, Aubrey.'

Aubrey wished he'd thanked the driver. The cart ride had given him a chance to gain some strength after his exertions at the burnt church.

Caroline stepped up and rapped on the door of Jack's hovel.

Oscar opened it, his bulk filling the doorway almost completely.

Inside, sitting on a bench, was a man with a large bandage covering the side of his head and another wrapped around his hand. He looked pale and strained.

'Say hello to Hugo von Stralick,' Jack said.