Sons of Liberty (16 page)

A voice quavered out of the darkness, echoing down the corridor. “Who’s there?”

Gwen frowned. “Lady Gwen, Royal Sorceress,” she called back, reaching out with her magic. Someone was sitting in the far room, surrounded by a haze of magic. She heard something clinking in the darkness as she walked forward and gathered her magic around her in a protective shroud. If it was an ambush of some kind, she’d trigger it the moment she walked into the room. “I’ve been sent to help.”

“
Help,” the voice said. It - he - sounded sodden. “You’re here to help!”

“
Yes, I am,” Gwen said. She cast the light ahead of her as she stepped into the far room. A middle-aged man was sitting at a table, surrounded by a pile of bottles. Judging from the sight, he’d been drinking steadily for hours, perhaps days. Gwen was morbidly impressed he hadn't collapsed completely. “And you are?”

The man giggled. “Captain Harry Wayne, Blazer,” he said. It was hard to be sure, but his accent was a strange mix of British and American. “Not that there’s anyone left to command, My Lady.”

Gwen stalked over to the windows and pulled open the slats, allowing light to shine into the room. Wayne groaned, shielding his eyes, as she turned back to get a good look at him for the first time. He wasn't exactly ugly, but his face was flushed and covered in dark stubble, while his uniform was torn and stained. She cursed herself for not having paid more attention to the New York Hall before going to Russia. Clearly, things had been getting out of hand long before the mass poisoning.

“
We’ll find others,” Gwen said. “What happened to the servants?”

“
Hung, My Lady,” Wayne said. He giggled again, lifting a bottle in an ironic toast. “They all danced in the air as their necks broke, save the traitor. Bastard fled so quickly we couldn't catch him.”

Gwen closed her eyes for a long moment. “Put down the bottle,” she said, firmly. “Go have a shave, a bath and then get into a clean uniform.”

“
You’re a lot more bossy than Master Thomas,” Wayne said. He held the bottle in front of his lips, mocking her. “Do you know what he said to me?”

“
No,” Gwen said. If Master Thomas and Wayne had exchanged words, and she knew it was possible, they hadn't made it into the file. “What did he say?”

“
He said I should drink myself to death,” Wayne pronounced, as if it were the punchline to a joke. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a swig. “Who am I to defy the Royal Sorcerer?”

Gwen reached out with her magic, yanked the bottle out of his hand and smashed it against the wall. “You can drink yourself to death later,” she snapped. Wayne half-stood, magic flickering around his hand, but she held her ground. Showing weakness was never a good idea. “Right now, you are to go shave, wash and get into a clean uniform - after showing me the records room.”

Wayne glowered at her. “And if I refuse?”

I could make you, Gwen thought. She forced the instinct out of her mind before she could make the same mistake for the second time. I need him ...

“
You will be shipped back to England to answer for your dereliction of duty,” Gwen said, instead. “It’s been over a month since the remaining sorcerers were killed. It was your job to recruit others from the registry and put them to work. What do you imagine the Duke of India will say when he hears about it?”

Her voice hardened. “Or I could just kill you out of hand,” she added, coldly. “We are in a state of war. No one will object if I execute you for bad conduct in the face of the enemy.”

She felt a pang of guilt at his shocked expression, which she ruthlessly suppressed. Wayne couldn't have done much, not without a training cadre, but at least he could have tried. Save for the handful of Talkers scattered around the continent, she and Wayne were the only trained British magicians for thousands of miles. A strong man in his position could have accomplished much.

And the Viceroy clearly didn’t realise just how bad things had become, she thought. The irony chilled her. Master Thomas had fought hard for a degree of independence for the Royal Sorcerers Corps, but it had come back to bite them hard. He could have done something if he’d had the time ...

She shook her head as Wayne rose to his feet. “The French aren’t going to wait for much longer,” she warned. “And we don’t have much time.”

“
Yes, My Lady,” Wayne said, unsteadily. “I’ll find you the records now, if you wish.”

And then start arranging for new servants, Gwen added, silently. She’d need to ask Irene to vet them, once the servants were lined up ... despite the risks. Another French agent might just get her as well as the other magicians. There’s far too much at stake.

Chapter Thirteen

“This is all we have?”

“
All the ones within easy reach, My Lady,” Wayne said. A wash and a change of clothes had done wonders for him, but he still looked like a man who’d bitten into something sour. “I left purebred Americans off the list because they’re unreliable.”

Gwen eyed him, darkly. “Unreliable?”

“
Yes, My Lady,” Wayne said. “The generation that endured the war knew better than to raise a hand against the government. Losing a third of New York to fires that were set by the retreating rebels taught them the dangers of trusting radicals. But the current generation is less inclined to accept the status quo. We caught a pair of the most promising magicians at a meeting of radicals, only three months ago.”

Gwen rubbed her tired eyes. “You don’t think they’d fight to defend their home?”

“
I’m sure they would fight to defend their home,” Wayne said. “I'm just concerned about who they would consider the enemy.”

“
I see,” Gwen said. She looked down at the list, again. “So we have seven magicians; three Blazers, two Movers, a Sensitive and a Changer.”

“
I’d be concerned about the Sensitive,” Wayne said. “According to the reports, he keeps losing at cards.”

Gwen scowled. No genuine Sensitive should ever have lost at cards, not when they could read someone’s emotions as easily as a Talker. Maybe it wasn't the same kind of magic, but the end results were the same. The Sensitive had to be a fake or otherwise crippled. Either way, he was useless.

“
There may be some women,” she said. “Are there none?”

“
They have not registered, My Lady,” Wayne said. He gave her a considering look. “My Lady, the colonials are rarely kind to magicians. Even after Master Thomas visited the colonies twenty years ago, it was rare for a colonial magician to openly reveal himself. Too many of the settlements are strongly religious.”

Gwen winced. As embarrassing as it was, there had been witch-hunts - genuine witch-hunts - in Scotland and Ireland; hell, some magical children in England had been killed, even though the Royal College would have happily taken them as foundlings. She knew just how lucky she’d been to escape such a fate, after her powers had manifested. If her parents had been a little less decent, she would have ended her days in the farms - or simply suffered an accident. No, she could understand why someone with magic might keep it to himself, despite the law. There was too great a chance of being murdered by his neighbours.

“
Then we work with what we have,” she said. She’d have to send a message to Lord Mycroft, asking for what little he could spare. “Can you recruit some servants?”

“
I can,” Wayne said. “But how can they be trusted?”

“
We can have them scanned by a Talker,” Gwen said. She didn't want to bring Irene into play too soon, but she doubted she had a choice. “Or we can look for people who don’t have a motive to betray us.”

She scowled as she recalled the half-caste maid. The French had a huge advantage when it came to recruiting, simply because they reached men of all colours as equals. Hell, slavery had officially been banned in their colonies, although the work-peonage system wasn't really much better. All they had to do was offer the promise of freedom and they’d have hundreds of thousands willing to come to work for them.

“
We can try,” Wayne said. He paused. “There are women from England who have come to the Americas in search of husbands. I can recruit a few washerwomen and suchlike from amongst them.”

Gwen blinked. “Husbands?”

“
The frontier is constantly expanding, My Lady,” Wayne said. “And there is a significant shortage of women.”

“
Very well,” Gwen said. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do. “The Viceroy’s Ball is tomorrow night, unfortunately. Send messages to the magicians, reminding them of their duty as registered sorcerers and inviting them to the hall. That gives us a day to get this place cleaned up, emptied of alcohol and rendered safe for habitation.”

Wayne gave her an appalled look. “No alcohol?”

“
It’s bad for magic, as you well know,” Gwen said, primly. Besides, it was going to be hard enough to train the magicians without alcohol being involved. “And we really need to train them up as fast as possible.”

“
Yes, My Lady,” Wayne said. “I’ll send the messages now.”

Gwen eyed his back as he shuffled out of the room. Throwing open the windows and lighting a dozen lanterns had transformed the hall, but it still needed a through clean before it was suitable, let alone impressive. She rather doubted any of the new recruits would be happy if they saw the hall in a messy state, let alone willing to fight for the country. Rising to her feet, she walked out of the door and up the stairs to the bedrooms. The doors had been pinned open, revealing that beds remained unmade and personal possessions left lying where they’d fallen. It was just something else that should have been handled before she arrived ...

She walked into the master bedroom and sighed. Sir Young, the senior magician, looked to have gone out for an evening stroll, rather than to his death. His books were still on the desk, covered by a thin layer of dust. She picked up one of them and frowned as she read the title; Magic And Murder. She’d read it herself, months ago. The author would have been darkly amused, she thought, to know that his book had made it across the Atlantic, although it was unlikely he’d ever get any royalties.

A drawing lay under the book, showing a young woman standing upright, two toddlers holding her hands. Sir Young’s wife and children, Gwen recalled; the file had stated that the wife had been too poorly to accompany her husband to his final post. Lord Mycroft would have seen to informing them of his death, Gwen was sure; she wondered, vaguely, how they’d taken it. Death in combat was one thing, but to die at the hands of a treacherous cook was quite another. There was something sordid about it.

Poor woman, Gwen thought. Sir Young would have a few thousand in the funds, if she was any judge, but who knew if it would go straight to his wife? It all depended on the martial contract. Surely she won’t be left completely destitute?

She made a note to add an inquiry to her message to Lord Mycroft, then headed down the corridor to the library. It was smaller than Cavendish Hall’s library, but crammed with more books. Not all of them, she noted with some amusement, were official textbooks. It looked as though the magicians had bought dozens of cheap books and added them to the collection, presumably after reading them first. Gwen picked up one of them and rolled her eyes at the title. There were times when she felt the inventor of the printing press had a great deal to answer for.

Wayne came up the stairs as she walked out of the library, his face flushed. “I’ve sent messages to the magicians and to the women,” he said. “We should start getting answers soon enough.”

“
Very good,” Gwen said. “Right now, I want to box up everything that was left behind by the dead magicians. We’ll ship it back to their heirs, if they had heirs.”

“
Yes, My Lady,” Wayne said. “I’ll fetch boxes from the cellar.”

Gwen watched him hurrying back down the stairs, feeling suddenly very tired and old. Back in Cavendish Hall, Doctor Norwell and the cleaning staff had handled all such matters, on the rare occasions when a resident magician had died in the line of duty. The only dead magician she’d had to deal with personally had been Master Thomas, after the Swing. She'd wanted to go through his possessions, hoping against hope that there would be some answers hidden amongst them. But there had been nothing.

His secrets died with him, she thought. There had been five Master Magicians - seven, perhaps, if one counted an unnamed girl in Russia and the Saint of Grimsby - and Gwen was the only one still alive. If he told Jack what he knew, before Jack turned on him, Jack never had a chance to share his secrets with me.

She shook her head as she heard Wayne muttering under his breath as he carried a handful of boxes back up the stairs. It would be better, far better, to keep a man like Wayne busy, too busy to start thinking about alcohol - or that he was taking orders from a teenage girl. She just didn't have time to handle an argument. Slapping him down would only make matters far worse, in the future. She needed him.

And this is his only chance to redeem himself, she told herself. He won’t waste it.

Hoping desperately that she was right, she took one of the boxes and went to work.

***

In all honesty, Raechel had almost forgotten what it was like to sleep in a proper bed, let alone just relax completely. The bed was sinfully comfortable, the room was cosy enough to make her drowsy even if she hadn't already been tired and, after the bath, her body felt warm and relaxed. She hadn't even bothered to get dressed, even into a dressing gown, before climbing under the sheets and closing her eyes.