The Royal Sorceress (40 page)

Lord Blackburn’s dark eyes narrowed. “We
can
win this by a simple and effective response; brute force on a scale they could not hope to match. And if they bring themselves into the open, we could smash them like foxes caught by the hounds.”

There was a long pause. “It seems to me that such repression will only alienate the working class further,” Lord Mycroft said. “Our system worked for so long because it offered the chance for a working class person to rise to the middle class, to own and operate his own business – or even emigrate to a settlement in America or South Africa. If we come down too hard...”

“They hit the
Tower of London
,” Lord Blackburn thundered. “They are not scared of us, not even slightly! We cannot let them get away with this or we will lose control of the country by the end of the year.”

Gwen spoke up before she thought better of it. “Tell me something,” she said, her feminine voice drawing their attention like nothing else. “How many of the working class have risen to the middle class in the last five years?”

Lord Blackburn glared at her, not bothering to conceal his dislike. If they had been alone, she was sure that he would have told her to run back to the kitchen and mind her own business, leaving politics to the men. But they weren’t alone and while some of the men might have shared his opinion, it would have been utterly impolite to say so out loud.

“Those who have earned the rise have done so,” he said, finally.

“You don’t know,” Gwen said, tartly. If she was to have the disadvantages of being a female in male company, she might as well claim the advantages too. “Let me guess; only a handful of men have managed to rise out of poverty?”

“That is of no concern,” Lord Blackburn blustered. “I think...”

“I think that it is of very great concern,” Gwen said, cutting him off ruthlessly. “As far as I can tell, the poor will always be poor, with no chance to better themselves. Is that not correct?”

“Those who have ambition and capability are often offered the chance to strike out overseas,” Lord Mycroft rumbled. “The remainder have no fire in them...”

“They have nothing to lose, but their chains,” Gwen said. Jack would have said the same thing, she realised. And who knew what Master Thomas was thinking behind his impassive face? “If they have no hope of lifting themselves up, should they not try to force their way up? What exactly do they have to lose?”

“Their lives,” Lord Blackburn said, sharply. “We are the rulers of Great Britain and her Empire. We cannot be seen to bow to anarchist threats. It’s time to show those scum who’s in charge.”

***

“Opposing Lord Blackburn like that was not wise.”

Gwen didn’t turn. She stood on the roof, staring out over London. The streetlights were coming on, illuminating the richer parts of the city. They stood in odd contrast to the poorer regions, which were barely lit. It was easy to see why Jack had found so many converts. If she’d lived in such conditions, forced to sell herself to survive, she would have wanted to change places too.

“He has far too many friends at court,” Master Thomas said. He stood just behind her, his presence easy to detect. Gwen could feel his mind pulsing as he stared past her and out into the night. “You will need to watch yourself.”

“You told me that before,” Gwen said, tartly. She was sorry almost at once. Master Thomas didn’t deserve her scorn. “I thought we were supposed to defend the British Empire, not...”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she admitted. It wasn’t entirely true. She understood Jack better than she wanted to admit. “Why does no one care?”

“They care about their interests,” Master Thomas said. “It was far simpler when I was young, when Pitt led us to war against the French. Magic was nothing more than superstition back then...”

He shook his head. “Our goal is to protect the Empire,” he reminded her. “Whatever else you decide, remember that. We exist to protect the Empire.”

Gwen turned and looked up at him. Master Thomas looked old, as if something had gone out of him. “And what is the Empire,” she asked quietly, “without its people?”

Master Thomas said nothing. But then, there was nothing to say.

Chapter Thirty-Four

W
are,” a man was shouting. “The Dragoons are coming!”

Jack stumbled awake and pulled himself out of bed. He’d slept in after they’d made their escape, trusting that the Seers and more conventional enemy agents wouldn’t be able to locate their hide. Lucy had joined him – her brothel would have been closed down – and somehow they’d found themselves in bed together. He glanced back at her as he staggered over to the windows, feeling pain trickling through his head. His body always extracted a price for pushing his powers too far.

People were scattering on the streets below, looking for cover or running into buildings. A line of troops came into view, decked out in the bright red uniform worn by British soldiers. Their commanders rode in front of the men, riding horses and daring anyone to try to take a shot at them. The red uniforms – red as blood – glimmered menacingly in the sunlight. There was no doubt that they intended to occupy the Rookery and dare the underground to challenge them directly. Jack wasn’t particularly surprised. The authorities would have to find some way of hitting back after the raid on the Tower of London and without any clear targets, pushing troops into the poorer parts of London was probably their best option. It was amazing how many people thought better of revolution after coming face to face with the government’s mailed fist.

“Cossacks,” he muttered, as he splashed water on his face. Hunger was growling inside his chest, but he ignored it. He would have to eat after he’d checked out the soldiers. “The bastards will pressure the civilians into betraying us.”

Lucy rolled over and looked up at him. “What’s happening?”

“They’ve put dragoons on the streets,” Jack said. The cold water was clearing his head. He ran one hand along his chin to check the stubble, before shaking his head in private amusement. There was no time to shave, even if he’d had the tools. “I think they’re going to start looking for us.”

The thought made him smile. London was the largest city in England; Manchester, Newcastle and even Liverpool didn’t come close to the sprawling immensity of London. Searching the entire city was going to take weeks, particularly when the searchers didn’t know precisely who or what they were looking for. It would give the underground time to think and plan, but the chances were good that the searchers would stumble over one of the caches of arms. And then the chaos would really begin. Weapons were forbidden to the lower classes, if only to prevent them objecting forcefully to the way they were treated by their lords and masters. An arms dump would reveal the plans for violent revolution.

There was a knock at the door. Jack braced himself, reaching for his magic despite the throbbing pain at the back of his head, before he opened the door. Olivia stood there, carrying a basket under one arm. Jack motioned for her to come in, silently praying that the soldiers on the streets below never saw through her disguise. She’d find herself raped and worse; the army was notoriously prone to savage repression and utterly intolerant of any attempt to rein them in and treat civilians decently. The Duke of India and a handful of other commanders had kept their men under control, but others hadn’t even bothered to try.

“I brought food,” Olivia said. “Davy sent you a note too.”

Jack took it and read it quickly. Davy’s network of spies – mainly street urchins, who could go anywhere in the Rookery without inciting comment – had reported that soldiers were taking up strategic positions throughout the city. There had already been some incidents of violence when soldiers had clashed with factory workers, intimidating them as they made their way to the factories in the morning, where they were told that the harassment would continue until the underground was rooted out and destroyed. Worse, their wages had been docked for lateness, even though it hadn’t been their fault. Jack scowled as he crumpled up the message in his hands. Someone on the other side was thinking two or three steps ahead; knowing that the factory workers needed their wages, they had used them to pressure the helpless men into betraying what they knew of the underground. The handful of leaders who had tried to create unions would already have been rounded up.

Lucy took the basket and opened it, revealing a hunk of bread and cheese. Jack ate his share absently, thinking hard. The soldiers had to be driven out of the poorer parts of the city before they gained complete control, or the underground would have to scatter and hope that the soldiers eventually left. Jack’s network of underground leaders would be broken up even if no one important was arrested by the authorities, for whatever trust had linked them together would be gone. An idea crossed his mind and he smiled, even as he took another sip of cold water. They would have to provoke a far more serious incident between the soldiers and the civilians before it was too late. And he knew just who to ask.

Pulling on his coat and picking up a set of stolen papers that claimed that he worked in a nearby factory, Jack nodded to Lucy and strode out of the door. The plan was already unfolding in his mind as he reached the street and walked down the middle of the road. It felt odd, almost deserted. The hawkers and traders, the drunkards and the whores, they all seemed to have slipped into the shadows, intimidated by the presence of the soldiers. He crossed an intersection and glanced down the side street, shivering as he saw the mounted horsemen patrolling the district. The intimidation would be enough to keep most of the underground in their place, unless rage broke through and destroyed the fear. And if it failed...

Jack had no illusions about the high cost of freedom. He’d been willing to pay it ever since he’d discovered the truth behind his origins. And yet...so many others had never been consulted. They had never made the choice to risk their lives for freedom. Jack hesitated, on the verge of turning around and slipping out of the city, and then his resolve firmed up. It was war, a war that had been waged since time out of mind. Freedom was worth any price.

***

Her name was Flora McDonald, a legacy from her Scottish father who had made his way to London to find work. He hadn’t found anything better than manual labour and had drunk himself to death before Flora had reached her tenth birthday. Despite being young and pretty – with fiery red hair and a seductive smile – Flora had been one of the luckier women in the poorer parts of London. She had never been forced to sell her body just to remain alive; indeed, her husband, one of the handful of teachers and labour organisers in the city, treated her surprisingly well. Flora had come to share his passion for his cause and hadn’t hesitated when she’d been asked to help the underground. The soldiers, mercifully, were less interested in harassing the women near the factories. There were simply too many other problems to tackle.

The factory was a massive black building, stained with soot and a hundred by-products of British ingenuity. Flora had been inside several factories – always without the permission or knowledge of the management – and she’d found them hellish, places where men worked to produce Britain’s vast catalogue of mechanical goods for small wages. A man who was injured on the job would find himself out on the streets. The factory owners didn’t care about the constant stream of cripples from among their employees. There were always more where they came from. Flora had helped tend men who had lost arms or legs to industrial accidents and it had torn at her soul to see how helpless they’d become. None of them had ever found other employment.

She braced herself as she walked up to the soldiers outside the gate. It was lunchtime at the factory, which meant that about half of the workers would be off-shift, waiting for their wives or daughters to bring them their lunch. None of the factories fed their workers; it was yet another expense that helped keep men in the gutter. Flora had had no difficulty in joining the stream of women making their way towards the factory, holding a basket in one hand. None of the women would recognise her, but they’d say nothing; new employees often arrived without notice, their wives unknown to the rest.

Most of the women were looking away from the soldiers, unwilling to make eye contact with the leering men at the gate. Flora braced herself and smiled at the soldiers, trying to make herself seem as inviting as possible. Far too many wives would sell themselves while their husbands were at work, trying to earn extra money to feed their children. The soldiers responded to her smile, grinning at her as the line slowed to a crawl. Flora knew that it was now too late to run. If something went wrong...

She reached the end of the line and paused, licking her lips as the soldiers smiled at her. They’d been asking the wives the names of their husbands, a question that would have made them feel harassed even though it was easy to answer; instead, the leader stepped forward and leered at Flora. Instead of checking her basket, he put his lips close to her ears and whispered a rude suggestion to her. Flora, pretending to be shocked, slapped him and ran for the gate, screaming for help. Confused, the soldiers gave chase.

Inside the factory gates, hundreds of men were milling around. They’d been bullied by the soldiers before they were allowed to enter the factory and then informed that their wages would be docked by the management. Mutiny and violence were in the air, even before the men saw one of their wives being chased by soldiers. One of the factory workers yelled aloud and charged at the soldiers. The others followed his lead. They were hardly weaklings – factory work was physically demanding – and the soldiers had no time to react before the workers were upon them, beating them to death. The soldiers at the gate lifted their weapons, only to find themselves swarmed by a mass of angry women. There was no longer any fear. It had been driven away by anger and resentment.

The soldiers were rapidly killed, but the riot was spreading. As Flora watched, the workers swarmed back into the factory, smashing their way through the building. The manager came out of his office and tried to speak to the crowd, but it was already too late. None of them had liked him even before he’d docked their wages, making his contempt for them all too clear. They ripped him and the clerks apart in seconds, setting fire to the paperwork that chained them as surely as cold iron. And then they headed out onto the streets, racing towards the soldiers and the other factories. The chaos spread faster than any warning.