Free Heart of Gold by Michael Pryor Page A

best not to be caught on the
bridge with such a horde. He saw that Caroline had made
her way down the stairs to the walkway along the embankment,
and that George was nearby. He went after them.
They came together near a statue of a revolutionary hero
on a horse that looked as if it was tired of being bronze.
    The marchers tramped closer to the bridge. They went
in good order, silent except for the noise of hobnailed
boots on cobblestones. They were dressed in workers'
clothes – twill trousers, vests, cloth caps – and those who
weren't brandishing torches were holding up placards
announcing that they were the Marchmaine Independence
League. Aubrey raised an eyebrow. The movement
had more supporters than he'd thought. When his father
had spoken of it, Aubrey had imagined a few unworldly
troublemakers standing on street corners and haranguing
passers-by.
    Aubrey climbed the grassy bank to the road above to
see better, and a few of the more curious actors went
with him.
    He could spy no obvious leader of the marchers. Grim
faced, many had rolled-up sleeves, an indication that
they'd recently come from work. Or they're expecting more physical exertion , Aubrey thought. He glanced in the direction
they were marching – toward the Town Hall – and
his eyes widened.
    An equally large mass was heading up the road directly
toward the Marchmainers. This crowd didn't hold up
torches, nor placards. Streetlights glinted from gold braid
and highly polished truncheons.
    'Police,' Aubrey said. A reveller at his shoulder
muttered something uncomplimentary. Soon the word
had spread through the Albion Friendship Society.
Nonchalantly, they backed away and gathered on the
embankment, well away from the road and the bridge.
    Aubrey decided that the Lutetians would know best,
and he followed. An iron rail ran along the edge of the
embankment and Aubrey vaulted onto it for a better
view. He steadied himself against a wrought-iron lamp
post and watched, with trepidation, as the two opposing
groups spied each other.
    A ripple spread through the front ranks of the Marchmainers.
Murmured commands, passed from one
comrade to the next, slowed the procession, packing
bodies close together. Soon, they stopped, filling the
bridge and stretching south up Charity Avenue. They
stood, torches burning, waiting.
    A whistle sounded from the police. They, too, stopped,
boots crashing as the ranks halted in good order twenty
yards from the Marchmainers.
    The two groups eyed each other. 'What's going to
happen?' he asked Duval. The director's face was pale.
    'Nothing, I hope. The Marchmainers have not been
violent before. I do not know why the police are here.'
    Aubrey frowned and scanned the area. His fingertips
were itching in a way that said magic was nearby. He
rubbed them together, but the feeling didn't diminish – it
grew more intense. He concentrated, casting about with
his magical awareness, and he caught a touch, a flavour
that was tantalisingly familiar. It had a resonance that he'd
encountered before – and it was growing more powerful.
Before he could recall it exactly, he was shocked by a wave
of potent enchantment that shook him deeply, leaving
him stunned for a moment. Reeling, he clutched at the
lamp post, struggling to draw breath. Numbly, he felt as
if the whole world had shivered. He gasped, drawing a
sharp look from George. 'What's wrong, old man?'
    Aubrey shook his head as the unsettling sensation
receded. A spell had been cast, very close by, a spell of
such force that he'd been caught in its poorly limited
field of effect. He shook his head, slowly, trying to clear
it. He felt as if he'd been picked up by the collar and
shaken by a terrier the size of an elephant.
    An angry shout came from the mass of Marchmainers.
Aubrey tried to see who it was, as the man kept up a long
stream of invective, cursing the police, the government
and – most puzzlingly – his bootmaker.
    Aubrey finally spied the shouter as those around him
turned, clearly