Heart of Gold by Michael Pryor Read Free Book Online Page A

but the user had been
careless in delineating the variables of range and effect.
He could sense traces of magical residue everywhere, like
the splatters caused by dropping a rock in a pool of mud.
    'Aubrey, stop that humming. I think he's waking up.'
    George's summons brought Aubrey back to the chaise
longue. The eyes that opened, however, didn't reassure
him. Blank pits, absent of emotion, they were the eyes
of the void. Aubrey looked into them and felt as if he
was balanced on the brink of a precipice. The abyss
beckoned.
    Shaken, he turned away. His hands trembled and he
clasped them together. 'Quickly,' he said, 'tie him up.'
    'Aubrey? What's wrong with him?' George was pale,
uncertain.
    'I have no idea, but he's no better. We must restrain
him.'
    As if to underline Aubrey's words, Monsieur Jordan
jerked and tried to sit up in the clumsiest way possible.
He ended up folding in the middle like the covers of a
book being slammed together. He flopped backward,
bared his teeth, then began groaning while he struggled
again. George pushed his shoulders down.
    'Here.' Aubrey lunged for a large canvas drop cloth that
had been flung on the floor. He picked it up with both
arms. 'Wrap him up in this.'
    They were helped by the inept flailings of Monsieur
Jordan. Any half-coordinated child would have been able
to escape as Aubrey and George fumbled and cursed their
way to spreading the canvas, then winding it around the
groaning, drooling artist.
    By the time they were done, both Aubrey and George
were panting. George rubbed at the side of his jaw where
the back of Monsieur Jordan's head had caught him.
'I wish he'd stop that groaning,' he said.
    The artist was on the floor, wrapped from neck to
knee in the paint-daubed canvas, looking like a particularly
colourful cocoon.
    'Monsieur Jordan?'
    Aubrey looked up to see a distressed Madame Calvert.
Behind her were a police officer and a rotund man
dressed in a blue suit. From the bag he was carrying,
Aubrey was sure he was a doctor.
    'He's awake, but . . .' Aubrey flapped a hand. 'Doctor,
I think you'll need to look at him.'
    Madame Calvert translated and the doctor started
toward the unfortunate artist. The police officer stepped
forward and interposed himself. 'No,' he said in accented
but clear Albionish. 'He must come with me.'
    'Monsieur Jordan?' Madame Calvert said. 'Impossible.
He's an important artist. Besides, he needs medical care.'
    'I must insist,' the police officer said. 'We have the facilities
for taking care of these cases.'
    'Captain,' Madame Calvert began.
    'Inspector, not Captain,' the officer corrected.
'Inspector Paul. But given time, it will be Captain Paul,
so you are correct, if a little premature.'
    Aubrey rolled his eyes. He'd heard the same confident
tones in the junior bureaucrats who flocked around his
father, looking for advancement. Inspector Paul was in
his middle twenties, dark-haired and dark-eyed. His
uniform had creases sharp enough to be a danger to small
children. His hair had a centre part so perfect that Aubrey
was sure he must use a measuring tape to get it exactly
in the middle.
    Inspector Paul addressed himself to Madame Calvert
while the doctor stared first at Monsieur Jordan, then at
the police officer, then at his watch. 'If you have a telephone,'
Inspector Paul said, 'I will call my superiors and
they will send a special team for Monsieur Jordan.'
    Madame Calvert nodded, as if she didn't trust herself
to speak, then she shepherded the doctor down the stairs.
Before Inspector Paul followed, he nodded at Aubrey and
George. 'You will remain, of course? I will have questions
for you.'
    Monsieur Jordan had lapsed into silence. Aubrey studied
the flaccid face and saw no emotions. Without them , he
thought, the human face might as well be made of wax .
    'Welcome to Lutetia,' Aubrey muttered and he sat on
the vacant chaise longue.
    'I don't know about you, old man,' George said as he
joined him, 'but I was hoping for something a little