Blaze of Glory by Michael Pryor

approved of the way the pilot
rolled the aircraft around the dirigible tethering mast on
top of the building and then mounted even higher.
    'I wanted to think,' he said. 'Ornithopters are so noisy
it's hard to talk, let alone think.' He looked up again and
followed the ornithopter as its metal body caught the
sun. Someday, he'd like to learn how to fly one of those
magically enhanced machines. 'Another time, George.'

    A FTER THE PORTER HAD STOWED THE LUGGAGE, HE BACKED out of the compartment.
    With blue velvet bench seats, chintz curtains, brightly
polished brasswork and turned wood, the compartment
was fit for a king, Aubrey decided, and most probably
had hosted royalty. He approved of the combination of
luxury and cunning artifice, showing that comfort need
not be sacrificed in an efficient, modern world.
    Aubrey placed his hat on the wire shelf above the other
seat in the compartment and hung his coat in the cleverly
designed rack, which was no more than a handspan wide.
He sat on the velvet and brushed his hand backwards and
forwards, studying the changing sheen of the nap.
    George frowned at the compartment from the narrow
doorway. 'Don't just stand there,' Aubrey said, 'come in.'
    George sat. Then he smiled and ran a hand through
his sandy hair. 'Plush, isn't it? I feel out of place.'
    'Don't worry about it. Relax, enjoy the ride.'
    George sat back, realised he was still wearing his jacket,
stood, took it off and hung it up. He took a position by
the window.
    Unlike George, Aubrey had some experience in
dealing with royalty and foreign diplomats. A constant
stream of the powerful and famous had run through
Maidstone over the years of Aubrey's growing up. George
was a country lad, not accustomed to the brittle world of
precedence, protocol and politics. He was more at home
in the fields and woods than in the drawing room.
    At least he should enjoy the shooting , Aubrey thought. He
remembered the letter his grandmother had given him
before he left Stonelea that morning.
    'Something amusing?' George enquired.
    'Grandmother. She gave me a twelve-page letter,
detailing everything she thought I'd forget.'
    'Stand up straight, eat all your greens, things like that?'
    'Protocol, George. How to address the Crown Prince.
How to address a foreign diplomat. Correct forms of
praise for good shooting by one's host. That sort of thing.'
    'Twelve pages,' George mused. 'You read them all?'
    'Hardly.' Aubrey grinned. 'But I'm sure it's nothing
personal. I'm certain she would have written such a tome
for Father if he were going instead of me.'
    George smiled and then looked serious. 'How are you
feeling?' he asked.
    Aubrey shrugged. 'I'm all right at the moment. I'm
rested, the spells seem to be holding . . .There's not much
more I can do.'
    'Have your researches given you any hope of a lasting
cure?'
    'I've found a few small refinements to the spells I'm
using, but that's all. I have a few prospects to investigate,
but . . .' Aubrey's good mood began to evaporate. Thinking
about his condition made him depressed. He'd
achieved an equilibrium state where maintaining his
integrity was almost automatic. Focusing on it made
him aware of how precarious his state actually was, how
fragile the grace afforded to him by his spells.
    Aubrey brooded, cursing the impetuousness that had
led him to the disastrous experiment. He had grown
good at this self-chastisement and he took a moment to
give himself a good dressing-down. He deserved it.
    In addition to castigating himself for bungling the experiment,
he spent time dissecting his actions. As well as the
failure in the focusing figure, he was sure that, despite his
efforts, the problem had arisen from a slight looseness of
expression in one element in the spell. It was enough to
introduce an error, which had influenced a variable and
thus created another error, which led to more. Subtle,
infinitesimal, but errors nonetheless. The result was
death's opening in front of him. It was still there,