speak of.’
Ahead, one of the last of the warehouses was ablaze – the source of Aubrey’s magically induced discomfort. A small crowd had gathered and stood on the riverbank side of the road in front of the warehouse. The Enlightened Ones were standing next to their lorries, a distance away, with von Stralick and Madame Zelinka conferring with two or three of their comrades. Smoke swirled into the air, and it moved with a sluggishness that Aubrey didn’t like at all.
‘I wish I hadn’t either.’ Aubrey had drifts of purple light on his tastebuds; the effect was verging on painful. At the same time his skin crawled with what he could only liken to anchovy flavour; he longed to scratch, but knew it would do no good.
George and he had had some experience with magical bombs dropped from Holmland airships back in Trinovant, enough for him to feel the similarities. This one had fallen about half a mile from the fortress, which loomed on the other side of the river. Aubrey wondered if it was the result of poor aiming or faulty equipment, or whether the bomb had fallen exactly where it was meant to.
At that moment, they passed the last of a row of oaks and the fortress came into view. He stared at it in disbelief.
In the middle of the fortress, in what must have been the parade ground, rose an iron construction, nearly as tall as the guard towers themselves. It was a madcap construction of girders, struts and bracings, obviously makeshift despite its size. Four great arms projected from the top, and it reminded Aubrey of nothing as much as a windmill made of the contents of a scrap metal yard, but he doubted that the arms could rotate, so massive were they.
‘It looks like a giant electrical fan,’ Sophie said. ‘So big. What is it for?’
‘I think we may have to find out,’ Aubrey said, ‘but not before we do what we can about this fire.’
Fifty yards away from the blaze, Aubrey signalled his friends to stop. He didn’t want to come close, not immediately, not now that he could see what was engulfing the warehouse.
While the fire was roaring away, doing its best to consume the building, anything made of metal had come alive. Beams writhed like tentacles in the flames. Roofing iron rippled, curling and uncurling like beckoning fingers, while fire roared through the gaps.
Aubrey gnawed at his lip. He tried to divine if this animation of non-living materials was the intended outcome or simply an accident, but the magic ebbed and flowed, powerful and erratic one instant, almost vanishing the next.
George tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Look.’
On the other side of the river, soldiers were gathering on the walls of the fortress to watch the fire. ‘You’d think they’d try to do something about it,’ Aubrey said and he started sifting through possible magical assistance he could bring to the situation. Weather magic, though he was loath to try it? The Law of Transference, with the river so close at hand?
‘I think they are waiting for help,’ Sophie said. ‘From the river.’
A whistle sounded as a vessel approached from upriver, steam coming from two smokestacks. The purpose of the craft’s second chimney was revealed when the vessel tied up to a jetty opposite the blazing warehouse and a jet of water arced from the rear of the boat onto the flames.
‘A steam pump.’ Aubrey was impressed by the technology, but dismayed when the plume of water stuttered and cut out. Crewman scurried about, shouting and arguing. The water jet resumed, but the fire fighters had trouble keeping it constant.
Aubrey concentrated. ‘Ah. The regulator valve is magically enhanced to maximise output.’ He bit his lip. ‘The spell is fluctuating.’
‘Poor spellcrafting?’ Sophie asked. ‘An effect of the magical fire?’
‘Perhaps.’ Aubrey glanced at the fortress and the strange tower. ‘Perhaps.’
Spray wafted to them on the breeze and the crowd retreated, away from the jet of water. Aubrey wiped his face. The fire fighters were making some headway – the flames were noticeably less vigorous, but girders were still writhing about on either side of the huge gap that had opened when part of the roof collapsed. Madame Zelinka was organising the Enlightened Ones into squads.
‘Let’s leave this to them for the moment,’ Aubrey said. He eyed the peculiar tower in the fortress. ‘We have other matters to investigate.’
They pedalled across the Market Bridge, half a mile downriver from the blaze, and looked to where the fortress stood.
The guards at the gatehouse were diligent, and prompt enough as they examined George’s credentials, but Aubrey was concerned at how fatigued they looked, as if they hadn’t slept for days. The younger of the two guards – and neither of them looked seventeen – yawned almost continuously while his comrade summoned Major Saltin on the telephone.
‘Doyle!’ the Gallian cried as soon as he came into view. He was wearing his navy blue air service uniform, but Aubrey noted that it had been patched at the shoulder, and one sleeve was singed.
Saltin saw Aubrey. He stopped, eyes wide, mouth moving silently. Aubrey was alarmed that he was about to cry out but George was alert. He took Saltin’s arm. ‘You don’t know my batman, do you, Saltin? Private Taylor?’
Saltin gaped at George. ‘Taylor? Batman?’
‘My servant,’ George said jovially. ‘A dab hand at shining boots, aren’t you, Taylor?’
Aubrey saluted with what he hoped was the right touch of servility. ‘Sir.’
‘Taylor,’ Saltin repeated dubiously. ‘What is going on?’
‘War is a confusing time, Saltin,’ George said, ‘but I have some information that might help clear things up. D’you have anywhere we can speak in private?’
Saltin scowled, but then he brightened. ‘Do not tell me that this is Mme Delroy I see here? M’mselle, why aren’t you back in Lutetia? You are the only intelligent one writing for that newspaper of yours!’
Sophie extended her hand. ‘High praise from the Chevalier of the Skies.’
‘Chevalier of the Skies?’ George repeated. ‘Is that one yours, Sophie?’
‘Her reports have been good for my career.’ Saltin beamed. ‘But now, come away, I have much confusion that needs removing.’
‘S O YOU ARE NOT A TRAITOR, F ITZWILLIAM,’ S ALTIN said, ‘despite what the newspapers say.’
Major Saltin’s office was on the ground floor of the administration wing of the fortress. Aubrey, George and Sophie were sitting in front of Saltin’s desk in hard chairs. Behind Saltin a window looked over the parade grounds, and it was only with difficulty that Aubrey tore his gaze away from the unlikely structure that towered where the central flagpole had once stood. Before he could respond, George cut in. ‘Traitor? Aubrey? I should think not, Saltin. If it weren’t for Aubrey, Divodorum would be overrun with giant mechanical golems.’
‘Mechanical golems?’ Saltin fingered his moustache. ‘This sounds as if you have a tale to tell me.’
The tale took some telling, enough for Major Saltin to interrupt it in the middle and summon coffee, apologising for the poor quality before the story resumed. Aubrey had to admit that Saltin was a fine audience. He listened attentively and seethed at the perfidy of the Holmlanders, shook his head at the outrageousness of Dr Tremaine’s plans and groaned at Sophie’s description of Lutetia in the grip of political infighting.
Aubrey finished by detailing his suspicions about the Holmland build-up in the area. ‘What do you think, Saltin?’
Saltin sat back in his chair and laced his fingers on his chest. ‘We saw preparations before our last airship was shot down. Pushing through Divodorum could be tempting.’
Saltin glanced to the north-east. Aubrey could imagine him seeing right through the walls, over the earthworks, past the forests to where the Gallian troops were dug in. ‘We have been expecting reinforcements,’ Saltin said, ‘but we have been disappointed.’
‘Can you hold the line if you don’t get them?’ George asked.
‘Yes. For how long, though, I’m not sure.’
Aubrey frowned, thinking of Stalsfrieden and the Crystal Johannes. ‘What if Dr Tremaine brings up something magical to throw against you?’
Saltin sat up in his seat. ‘Magical? Such as?’
‘I don’t know,’ Aubrey admitted, and he drummed the arm of his chair with frustration.
