‘Wait here,’ von Stralick said.
In a minute, von Stralick was back. He shone his lantern on the lump of stone he held in the crook of one arm. ‘Green Johannes.’
George stared. ‘And Green Johannes to you, von Stralick. Whatever that means.’
‘This is a very expensive piece of Green Johannes stone. It comes from Korsur, and it’s freshly extracted. Someone here has been there recently.’
Aubrey reached out with a finger. The stone was warmer than he would have expected. ‘I tend to believe that, where Dr Tremaine is concerned, coincidences don’t exist. If he has an interest in Korsur, then we should be interested too.’
‘The journey should be easier than the one we had, Fitzwilliam,’ von Stralick said. ‘Make your way to Bardenford and you should be able to catch a train to Hollenbruck. Many miners move about the area from all over Holmland. Many accents, some who only speak Holmlandish as their second language. You shouldn’t stand out.’
‘I’ll leave the talking to you, old man,’ George said to Aubrey.
‘You’ll have to walk from Hollenbruck to Korsur,’ von Stralick said. ‘We shall meet you in Fisherberg.’
‘Sooner or later,’ Madame Zelinka added, and when she glanced at von Stralick Aubrey saw another player in this drama, one with motives all of her own.
13
Confident after his recent implementation of his revised levitation spell, Aubrey took George through the garden and to the very edge of the cliff at the rear of the estate. The darkened forest was hundreds of feet below, but the increased gunfire coming from the woods on the other side of the estate was enough to convince George that this was a reasonable, if precipitous, direction to go.
Aubrey managed the spell with alacrity, and was somewhat put out by George’s refusing to open his eyes on the entire downward journey, even when the muffled thumps of twin grenade explosions came from the estate overhead.
Once on the ground, they followed the river until they found a crossing, a shallow ford a mile downstream, one that – from the hoof prints – was a favourite of stock. They pushed on for an hour. George embellished his account of the crossing of Gallia, the finding of Sophie’s parents, spiriting them out of the country, reporting to the Directorate and the aftermath. Even though he minimised his own part, Aubrey could see that time and time again the journey would have foundered if not for George’s perseverance and ability to find a middle approach between disparate ways of thinking.
In turn, Aubrey shared with George the hardships of crossing Holmland, a far more dangerous task than journeying across friendly Gallia. Despite some past antipathy with the ex-Holmland spy, George showed some sympathy for von Stralick’s illness and the difficulties it had caused.
While they trudged through the night, keeping as much as possible to the forested paths and avoiding roads, Aubrey told of the horror they had found in the basement of Dr Tremaine’s estate. He was still trying to grasp the full implications of the ghastly apparatus and a hundred details that he hadn’t realised he’d taken in began to emerge through George’s gentle probing.
Every detail he remembered, every small item that he’d filed away for later consideration, pointed to the fact that Dr Tremaine was working in ways that were not only mysterious, but were interlocking in a manner that was extremely ominous. Aubrey felt as if he were managing to catch sight of the smallest corner, the barest hint, of a huge and vastly complicated map made by a master cartographer.
14
Korsur was one point of an uneven triangle that ran over the Gallia-Holmland border. Stalsfrieden was about twenty miles away to the north-east of the tiny village, while Divodorum – over the border – was about thirty miles away, roughly north-west. Korsur itself wasn’t far from the Mosa River, the actual border between the two countries.
Two days after leaving Dr Tremaine’s retreat, Aubrey and George heard the sound of artillery from the north grow louder as they approached the tiny town, walking the five miles from Hollenbruck, the town with the closest station. They paralleled a road through heavily wooded country that was a series of low hills and shallow valleys.
Avoiding the road itself proved to be a wise decision. It allowed them to see the road block without being seen themselves and, when they found a well-concealed position amid a stand of alders, it enabled them to survey the village before they approached.
It was professional caution that prompted this, and Aubrey was glad that George and he had taken the time to stretch out on their stomachs and use their binoculars. It didn’t stop George, however, from muttering a low oath, nor from Aubrey checking his binoculars to see if they were working properly.
‘George,’ he said, ‘they aren’t Albionite troops, are they?’
‘They’re wearing Albionite uniforms.’
The armed soldiers that were patrolling the entire perimeter of the village, two hundred or more of them, were indeed wearing the distinctive khaki tunic and trousers of the Albionite infantry. Aubrey couldn’t make out a regimental badge at the shoulder, and none of the troops had the customary rifle patches above the breast pocket either. He picked one of the nearer soldiers – a private who was hauling sandbags for a machine gun emplacement that was blocking the main road into Korsur – and scrutinised him carefully, starting at the peaked cap and working downward.
When Aubrey reached the man’s boots, he echoed George’s oath. ‘They’re not Albionites,’ he confirmed. ‘No puttees, and I’ve never seen any Albionite wearing black, knee-length boots like that.’
‘You’re right. No Albionite mudgrubber would be seen dead in footwear like that.’
‘I have an idea who might, though. Do you remember when we were in Fisherberg? The Imperial Household Guard?’
‘Those beggars? The ones who thought they were a cut above everyone else, strutting about as if they owned the place?’
‘They may have been arrogant, but they did have a preference for a distinctive type of black, knee-length boot.’
‘So, we have Holmland troops, masquerading as Albion troops, blockading a tiny, out-of-the-way Holmland village. What is going on?’
‘I don’t know yet, but if we add this to Dr Tremaine’s interest in this place, I’m more than keen to find out.’ Concealing the identity of troops was a highly dubious undertaking and Aubrey dreaded what it indicated – and he feared for the inhabitants of Korsur.
He moved the binoculars over what once would have been an idyllic outlook. Korsur was a handful of buildings, all whitewashed, neatly arranged around a minute village green, complete with a bordering duck pond. Smoke came from chimneys, the steeple on the church stood proud against the blue sky. The perfection of the scene was marred, however, by the activity of the Albion-uniformed soldiers.
A score of them were working on a road barricade, intent on making it a substantial emplacement, with a heavy machine gun guarding the main road into the town. The rest were standing around the perimeter of the village, almost shoulder to shoulder, unsmiling, weapons at hand. They were facing inward, toward the village.
The commander – a colonel? – inspected the perimeter guards and once he was satisfied took up position in front of the sandbags, standing with his hands behind his back in the middle of the road, looking back toward Hollenbruck and occasionally checking his pocket watch.
Aubrey sketched the lie of the land in his notebook: a handful of neat houses, one road through the centre, a smaller joining it where the church marked the centre of the place. He followed this secondary road past the
