Time of Trial by Michael Pryor Page A

‘Don’t trouble yourself, old fellow, just thought I’d see if you were available. If there’s anything I understand, it’s commitments.’ He shook Aubrey’s hand. ‘Now, to another of those commitments.’
    Aubrey walked with him to the front door. ‘What is it this time? Dedicating a new bridge? A meeting of an excruciatingly dull committee?’
    â€˜A new battleship is being launched at Imworth. I have to be there. Show of support and all that.’
    â€˜Of course.’
    Aubrey saw the Prince out. When the door closed, he stood for a moment, admiring his friend. It couldn’t be easy being the heir to the throne – not to mention that Bertie could rightfully claim the throne of Gallia as well if he chose. There’s someone who knows how to keep a secret.

Eight
    Events were bumping together like thunder-clouds before a storm. After the Prince left, Aubrey abandoned his plans for more research. He decided to go looking for Hugo von Stralick, but not before taking a special item from the safe and replenishing George’s appurtenances vest with a variety of possibly useful items.
    Holmland was at the heart of things, he decided as the underground train made its way toward Little Pickling. Dr Tremaine, the symposium, the appearance of Otto Kiefer and his Beccaria Cage. He needed to talk to someone about Holmland’s intentions, and Hugo von Stralick was the one whose brain he could pick.
    The train took him across the river and he waited impatiently, fingering the Beccaria Cage through his shirt, until he alighted at Laidley Grove Station. After that it was a fair hike to get to the Istros Coffee House.
    From the outside, the café looked none the worse for the fracas the previous day. The proprietor didn’t look overwhelmingly happy to see him, frowning as Aubrey made his way through the warm and exotic front room.
    The inner room was equally warm, but as Aubrey stood just inside the doorway he couldn’t help but feel that something had changed. Gone was the excited argument, the chatter. The tables were well populated, but heads were bowed, conversations guarded. His arrival sent a ripple of surprised glances around the steamy, smoky room, but no-one would meet his gaze.
    He scanned the café but couldn’t see von Stralick. He was about to give up when Kiefer wandered through the front door. He looked relieved, and twisted his cloth cap between his hands as if he were trying to wring it dry. ‘Hugo said you’d be looking for him.’
    â€˜And where is he?’
    â€˜He asked me to find you. Find you and take you to him.’
    Aubrey didn’t like being at von Stralick’s command. ‘Where?’
    â€˜I’ll take you.’
    â€˜Cab?’
    Kiefer looked blank and Aubrey could see him trying to remember how much money he had in his wallet. ‘We will walk.’
    Kiefer’s long legs set a cracking pace, but Aubrey found it easy to keep up, thanks to his reconstituted self. This meant he had enough energy to question Kiefer and, after some initial resistance, the youth became almost garrulous, telling Aubrey a long, rambling tale of the way his father had been exploited, his tragic death and the subsequent struggles of the family. Kiefer walked with his head down and his hands clutched behind his back as he kept up his monologue of money problems and how these had made him careful with every penny, even after he’d been sponsored in his studies by one of Holmland’s more generous nobles. On more than one occasion, Aubrey had to steer him around lamp posts and fellow pedestrians, and he had to take him by the arm whenever it came time to cross a road.
    After fifteen minutes of this erratic journey, Kiefer stopped suddenly and peered around. They were approaching a busy intersection, near a flower market, if Aubrey’s nose was any judge.
    Kiefer turned his gaze to Aubrey. He was calm and serious.