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the campus would no doubt be frowning over reallocations, cancellations and amalgamations. The university was likely to become a serious place indeed. Aubrey thought of the days by the Greythorn River, the long afternoon teas and the fun of the cricket matches. It may be a long time before such carefree days ever resumed, especially if Dr Tremaine’s plans came to pass.
    He imagined Dr Tremaine was feeling satisfied as nation after nation declared war on each other. It was the sort of scale he’d been after all along, the magnitude of war that was needed to complete the Ritual of the Way.
    George opened the door to the library. Aubrey could see that, in the warmth of the evening, the windows had been open. The smell of honeysuckle made his favourite room in the house even more inviting. He took one of the large leather armchairs and let his gaze wander over the thousands of volumes on the shelves.
    The Ritual of the Way was death magic of the worst sort. It was theoretical, because no-one had ever thought that a sufficient blood sacrifice could be organised. Dr Tremaine, however, was a man who dared do what others recoiled from. He had realised that war was nothing if not an organised blood sacrifice. If he could harness it and orchestrate a battle of gargantuan size, he could achieve his ends.
    Immortality. Even the warmth of the summer evening wasn’t enough to stop Aubrey from shivering at the prospect of an immortal Dr Tremaine. Given eternal life, could anything stop him?
    There was a knock at the door and Harris brought in a tray. George took it from him and placed it on the table between his chair and Aubrey’s. He poured, and Aubrey was charmed when he saw that Harris had found his favourite childhood mug. Solid brown earthenware, a smiling cow beamed out at him from it.
    George had a more mature mug – a thoughtful-looking duck – and after he sipped he sighed. ‘Good cocoa, that.’
    Aubrey sipped. ‘Harris made it himself.’
    â€˜Not cook?’
    â€˜Harris prides himself on his cocoa.’
    â€˜I see.’ George took another mouthful, then placed his mug on the table. ‘All right, old man. Now that the cocoa discussion is out of the way, I need to ask you a question.’
    Aubrey lifted an eyebrow. ‘Mmm?’
    George pursed his lips, scratched his chin, frowned and then rubbed his hands together. Running out of time-wasting gestures, he finally fixed his gaze on Aubrey. ‘What are we going to do?’
    Aubrey put his mug on the table as well. He sat back and crossed his arms on his chest. ‘That’s a very good question, George. It deserves to have a very good answer, but I’m dashed if I know what it is.’
    â€˜Let me throw a few words into the ring: duty, responsibility, obligation.’
    Aubrey made a face. ‘You don’t have to remind me about duty.’
    â€˜I know, old man.’
    â€˜King and country, that sort of thing?’
    â€˜Sounds old-fashioned when you put it like that.’
    â€˜If you mean unthinking obedience and loyalty to something as abstract as a country, then I think it is a bit old-fashioned.’
    George nodded, but Aubrey saw this was potentially upsetting. ‘Don’t mistake me, though,’ he went on. ‘I happen to think you can do the same thing for two different reasons. While some people might rally to Albion just because of patriotism, with no questions asked, I like to think that I support Albion because I’ve asked the questions and I’m satisfied with the answers.’
    â€˜Like your magic,’ George said slowly.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜You keep going on about Rational Magic, where you magic types ask questions and work things out intelligently. Maybe you’re doing the same with patriotism.’
    â€˜Rational Patriotism.’ Aubrey tried it on for size, and was quite comfortable with the fit. ‘If I’m rationally patriotic, I can admit