Free Blaze of Glory by Michael Pryor Page B

spells that worked on variables
of mass and velocity. 'But I'm sure Grandmother will have
sorted that out. She'll probably get a trunk or two of
clothes organised.'
    'Ah.'
    'Don't worry. The Holmlanders are notoriously bad
dressers. They spend enormous amounts of money on
clothes whenever they're posted over here, but they have
abominable taste. They'll either look like walking
haystacks or they'll scare away any game for miles.'
    'That's not much consolation. "There goes George
Doyle. He doesn't dress quite as badly as a Holmlander."'
    'George, you have tweeds, perfectly acceptable shooting
clothes. You're from the country, we're going out to
the country. You'll be at home.'
    'I hate tweed,' George mumbled. 'It itches.'

Six
    A UBREY LIKED TRAINS. H E FOUND IT HARD TO PASS A station without pausing to take in the steam,
smoke and organised business that was railway life. The
smells of oil and coal appealed to him, as did the knowledge
that every station was the beginning of a thousand
destinations, all waiting at the other end of the vast steel
network that was the railways.
    He saw trains as the result of a hundred and fifty years
of accumulated expertise and refinement. He admired
the power and precision in the engineering that went
into engines: the way that coal and water was turned into
enough horsepower to pull a laden goods train was testimony
to years of practical thinking, each engineer adding
his competence to those who'd gone before him.
    Or her , Aubrey added mentally, thinking of Lord
Ashton's daughter, Sophie, who had recently invented a
particularly clever magically augmented anti-blowback
valve for locomotive boilers. Extraordinarily expensive, it
was, so it was only found on the showpiece locomotives,
such as the one he was gazing at.
    He stood on the platform of Ashfields Station, the
busiest in the city, admiring the Teal , the latest of the
Northern Line's engines, the pinnacle of the Hurricane
class of engines. The dark green paint glowed on the
streamlined cowling as a stoker polished brasswork that
already glistened in the morning sun. A thin wisp of
steam came from the smokestack, indicating it was some
time before the train was to leave.
    Aubrey wanted to stop and chat with the driver,
but George was looking pained as he waited. 'Come on,
George,' Aubrey said, with a lingering glance at the great
driving rods and wheels. 'Let's find our compartment.'
    Aubrey led the way. He'd been feeling ill at ease all
morning and his stroll around the station had done him
good, allowing him to think clearly about the looming
weekend.
    He was willing to admit that he felt ambivalent about
the shooting party. The lack of clear direction from his
father was awkward. Aubrey was tossing up if it meant
that his father had confidence in Aubrey to know what
to do, or whether it meant a lack of confidence.
    Of course, the sinking of the Osprey was going to
make the weekend tense. Aubrey smiled to himself as he
imagined how the Albion politicians and generals would
be polite through gritted teeth, saying they understood
how these things happened while seething underneath.
The Holmlanders would be stiff and diplomatic and
manage to offend everyone without realising it, as Holmlanders
usually did.
    It was bound to be a weekend of walking on eggshells.
He wondered if his father really had another engagement
to go to.
    Aubrey marched down the platform, studying his ticket
and peering at the carriages. The porter with the bags
had to hurry to keep up.
    'Here, George,' Aubrey gestured. 'Climb aboard. Next
stop, Penhurst Estate Station.'
    'Why couldn't we take an ornithopter?' George asked.
'It'd be fun. We'd be there in no time.'
    As if to emphasise George's suggestion, an ornithopter
rose clattering into the air from the ornithopter port
nearby. Aubrey shaded his eyes and watched as it
swooped, steel wings beating birdlike at the air, righted
itself and then rose over the neighbouring Engineers'
Guild headquarters. Aubrey