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Novels :
Time of Trial
Time of Trial - Michael Pryor
[Book
trailer via YouTube.com]
Cover blurb
The mysterious Beccaria Cage could be
the cure for Aubrey’s
condition: a way to reunite his body and soul. But could its
usefulness hide something more sinister?
After Aubrey narrowly escapes the worst fate he can imagine,
he realises that there is only one thing to do: he must confront
his nemesis. With George and Caroline at his side, he travels
to Holmland – the home of Dr Tremaine and the heart of
hostile territory – only to face magical conundrums, near-death
experiences, ghosts, brigands and enemies on their own ground.
Fisherberg is a city on a knife edge. Can Aubrey solve its mysteries
before Dr Tremaine’s warmongering machinations tip the
world into chaos?
Michael Pryor says
Time of Trial is a turning point for Aubrey, George and Caroline. Political matters are coming to a head and after Dr Tremaine stretches out his hand and strikes from afar, they realise that they must act – instead of waiting for events to unfold.
As Book 4 of a six book series,Time of Trial is vital in keeping the
narrative arc going while maintaining the character and relationship development.
This means hurdles must be met and overcome (or not …) and more challenges coped
with. I didn’t want Time of Triall to be ‘more of the same’ so it struck me that
the best way to emphasise this would be to have the characters shift ground,
moving from Albion to somewhere else. They’d already been to Gallia, so I was
stuck – until I considered the possibility of their going to Holmland. In this
tense pre-war period, travel would still be possible between countries, and I
found many historical examples of this, with both diplomats and academics moving
between countries with some freedom.
I also wanted the relationship between Aubrey and Caroline to be tested – again. I like the way that they’ve reached an accommodation, but sometimes the head and the heart don’t necessarily talk to each other as they should …
‘Word of Honour ’
begins
Aubrey Fitzwilliam braced himself for the next
attack from his young, tall and menacing adversary. Young and
tall were manageable. It was the menacing part that was the problem.
Aubrey grimaced as sweat trickled from his brow and threatened
to blind him, but he couldn’t spare a hand to wipe it away.
His adversary advanced on him, murder in his eye, and launched
a thunderbolt.
Aubrey played forward and had to jerk back when the ball leaped
up off a good length, whistling past his gloves with nothing
to spare.
The bowler stifled a groan and stood mid-pitch. He threw his
head back as if to berate the gods for the injustice. Then he
scowled at Aubrey before beginning his march back to his bowling
mark.
Aubrey straightened and removed his batting gloves, trying to
give the appearance of someone who had so much composure that
he could give the surplus away to those less blessed — while
inside, his batting nerves jittered alarmingly.
The annual match between St Alban’s College and Lattimer
College was a carnival, the traditional event to mark the end
of term. Surrounding the oval was a throng of vastly amused spectators,
as well as a brass band, a coconut shy, sundry vendors of refreshments,
assorted dogs and even a tethered hot air balloon for the amusement
of those not entirely interested in the cricket. The day was
bright and sunny, perfect weather for such an occasion.
Aubrey was batting much sooner than he’d expected. Coming
in at number eight after a pitiful collapse by the higher order,
he was attempting to gather the sixty-odd runs needed for victory.
If he managed this improbable event, St Alban’s would defeat
Lattimer College for the first time in thirty-four years. At
the moment, this was exceedingly unlikely, as it seemed to Aubrey
as if Lattimer College was solely populated by six-foot-tall
Adonises. Every one of their bowlers had shoulders so broad that
he imagined Lattimer College was built with extra-wide doorways,
to save these gargantuan athletes from having to turn sideways
to enter rooms.
Aubrey’s batting partner, by contrast, was a well-meaning,
second-year magic student whose mind was mostly elsewhere. He
had a disconcerting habit of blinking and saying, ‘My word.
Should I be running now?’ when Aubrey was haring toward
him, which hadn’t helped matters at all.
The umpire cleared his throat. He was the professor of Jurisprudence,
selected on the misunderstanding that a familiarity with the
law meant he’d be a good umpire: His extremely thick glasses
suggested otherwise. ‘Are you ready, young man?’ he
quavered down the length of the pitch.
Aubrey sighed. ‘Sorry, sir.’ He pulled on his gloves. Bat
and pad close together, he thought, and if it’s
loose, lash it through the gap in the offside.
Aubrey hadn’t had a loose delivery in the four overs he’d
faced, but he was doing his best to be optimistic.
The bowler pawed the ground impatiently. From where Aubrey stood
he seemed small against the jollity of the spectators behind
him. Parasols, straw boaters and striped blazers made a colourful
backdrop, and Aubrey knew he’d lose sight of the ball as
soon as the bowler hurled it.
He went into his stance and gripped the bat so tightly it hurt.
The bowler squared his shoulders, his shirt visibly straining
not to burst at the seams. He grinned, then set off. At first
he loped, easily and smoothly, like a steeplechaser. Soon, however,
he accelerated, arms and legs pumping, a maniacal grin on his
face.
Just as the bowler gathered himself for his huge final bound
and delivery, Aubrey straightened. He smelled something — something
more than the smell of mown grass, more than the tang of nervous
sweat, something different from the aroma coming from the pie
seller’s barrow.
He smelled shrillness — and he knew magic wasn’t
far away.
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