The Witch Watch

by Shamus Young

  Finally Gilbert grew impatient, “Have you learned anything?”

  “Indeed yes,” she replied, putting back another book. “Our host appears to be a great admirer of Lord Tennyson.”

  “A sorcerer?” asked Simon.

  “A playwright, I think,” Gilbert said.

  “Poet,” Alice corrected him.

  “I suppose you’re looking for books of witchcraft. Have you found anything useful to our investigation?” Gilbert asked warily.

  “Not a one”, she said with disappointment.

  Simon rubbed his finger on the floor, “This is more dust than chalk. It’s been some weeks since the last attempt at sorcery was performed here. I wonder what they were doing.”

  Alice rejoined the men on the other side of the room and knelt down to examine the chalk marks, “A shame they erased so thoroughly. I would like to know what they were doing as well.”

  “This is truly captivating,” Gilbert said. “I imagine if we apply ourselves for the next several hours we might discover many secrets about how our foes clean their house.” He stepped into the room and let go of the door, which began to swing shut behind him.

  Alice lunged and caught the door before it latched, “I’ll thank you not to shut the three of us in a dark room.” She pulled the door open and the light flowed in again. “Look! There is no latch on our side. If the door had shut, we could have been trapped in here.”

  Everyone was suddenly anxious to leave the room. She held the door open and motioned them out.

  They proceeded down the hall and went left as directed. As they approached the ballroom they could hear the echo of someone addressing a crowd.

  The ballroom was cavernous. The ceiling was laden with piercing electric lamps that stung the eyes, yet the light seemed ineffectual against the dark wood of the walls. There was a pale green tinge to the room, and a pervasive haze of tobacco smoke sat at eye level. There were perhaps two dozen men gathered near the center of the room, huddling together and sustaining the tobacco cloud. A small number were accompanied by women, but for the most part this affair was attended by men in tuxedos. Most of the heads were white, or gray, or bald.

  Sir Edward James Brooks was standing and speaking to the men in a proud, strong voice. Three old fellows stood at his side.

  “The four horsemen!” Gilbert whispered, his hand returning to his sword-hilt.

  “Steady!” Alice commanded. “We are here to learn what we can. We are not here to assassinate the gentry of London.”

  “They’re here. They’re working for Lord Mordaunt. Why not be done with them?” he asked reasonably.

  “We caught them in the act of necromancy a few weeks ago. Or at least, supervising necromancy. If that was not enough to put them up at Tyburn, then I imagine we have even less grounds to walk into their house and assassinate them in front of the most powerful men in Great Britain. You might be immune to hanging, but Simon and I are not, and I would like to keep our necks out of the noose if it’s all the same to you.”

  “You’re right,” Gilbert grumbled.

  The crowd was laughing. Brooks had charmed them with wine and wit, and they were nodding and laughing as he spoke. “Now, I want to introduce a few friends of mine,” he said brightly. “I’m sure you saw them at dinner, but they’re much too humble to announce themselves. Humility is not one of my vices, so that duty falls to me.”

  Brooks was standing in front of the crowd. The other three horsemen stood at his side, looking slightly self-conscious. All of them wore dark suits. Brooks pointed to the oldest, “Perhaps some of you recognized this gentleman? This is General Bornholdt. Despite his reputation, he’s a fine fellow.”

  “As long as you’re not Russian!” one man joked before returning his pipe to his mouth.

  “Quite right!” Brooks smiled.

  The other guests nodded appreciatively, except for a young man in uniform, who began a sudden and incongruous clap. There was a look of awe on his face.

  “The serious looking fellow next to the general is Benedict Butler, the man who brought electric light to London.” There was polite applause at this. “And finally Judge Brown. Do not mistake his silence for rudeness. Since his sentences end mostly in death and transportation, his silence is actually the gentlest of compliments.” This earned another laugh from everyone except for Brown himself, who did not look like a man who knew how to smile. He nodded politely.

  Brooks continued, “But as excellent and as noteworthy as my colleagues are, I did not call you here tonight to meet them. No, I invited you here because I have something important to tell you.” Here the laughing and whispering in the room stopped. A man stopped himself from re-lighting his pipe, lest he make unwanted noise. The crowd hung on Brooks, who gazed out at them with a cunning gleam in his eye. Brooks was a skilled orator, which no doubt explained his endless success as a politician, and tonight he was playing the crowd like an instrument.

  There was a significant pause as the anticipation in the audience built. Finally Brooks continued, “I want to talk to you about our beloved Great Britain. She is not as strong or as dominant as she was a century ago. Our forefathers left us the greatest nation in the history of civilization, but if we are not very careful we stand the risk of giving our children much less. The American colonies rebelled and we allowed them to slip away. Now they are expanding, thriving, discovering gold. That fortune and prosperity is ours by right. Their riches should be flowing to our shores. We sowed the crop. We cultivated it. And now harvest time is come and we have no share in it. Instead of prosperity, we have a rival.”

  Brooks paused and met the eyes of many in the crowd. They nodded as his gaze fell on them.

  He continued, “Thirty years ago we fought the Russian War, and paid too high a price for our gains, and shared too much of it with the undeserving French.” The general nodded firmly at this, and a look of bitterness overcame his face. “Now the Transvaal Colony has rejected our rule. I wonder if any nation will be inclined to yield to us. And indeed, I can hardly blame them. They look to us for guidance, enlightenment, and leadership. If we cease to provide those things, then is it any surprise that they would seek to rule themselves? If we cannot lift the colonies out of their savagery, then we do not deserve our place as the leaders of the world. Perhaps the French will do a better job? Or the Italians? The Germans? India has rejected our rule once, or tried to. Was it their fault that they turned from us? Did they reject our greatness, or have we simply failed to be great?”

  The audience was quiet for a moment as Brooks allowed them to consider the question. Finally he continued, “Each colony that kicks away from us dooms itself, to be sure. But worse than that, every failure to keep control only encourages the others to rebel. The world is a great scale, you see. On one side is civilization, and on the other is savagery. We are gathering all we can onto our side, the side of civilization. Bad enough that our losses take away from our side, but they are then added to the other, multiplying our failures!”

  Brooks took up a glass of wine. A few others lifted their glasses, thinking he had been working up to a toast. But he drained the glass and set it back down again without a word. His mood was serious. “Much of this is a problem of leadership. Who can lead a nation? Those of you who know me well can recall my tales from the floor of Parliament. It is an orchestra of madness. Fools, elected by the ignorant and educated by the idealistic, are sent to accomplish contradictory goals. For my part, I strive to soften the blows of madness that Parliament inflicts, but that is only slowing the poison. No, the healing our nation needs cannot be provided by men in my position. Forgive me, for I am not trying to bore you with politics.”

  The audience was hardly bored, but appreciated his humility. They were nearly holding their breath, waiting to see where the man was going with such scandalous talk. Brooks paced a bit and gestured to one of the servants to refill his glass. After another drink, he continued, “Where was I? Ah yes. Leadership. Who can lead a nation? And
if that nation is Great Britain, then who can lead the world? Kings? Sometimes. But kings are flesh and blood, and prey to the frailties of men. In their youth, they are brash and short-sighted. In their age they are addled and absorbed with their impending demise. Only a few years in the middle give us a hale man of character and leadership. That is, assuming he is a man and nobody has done anything so foolish as to put us under a queen.”

  The older men laughed readily at this, while the younger men smiled nervously and looked to the women at their side, who were stony-faced.

  “It’s an endless cycle”, Brooks continued. “A young prince is frustrated with his father’s neglect towards the kingdom, and fantasizes about all of the grand changes he will make when the power rests on his shoulders. Then at last! He takes the throne and behaves with exceeding foolishness. After some time he learns from his failures and spends his middle years correcting his old mistakes and fending off challengers to the throne. Finally, age overcomes him and he drifts away, while his son dreams of the grand changes he will someday make. The pattern repeats for decades. Centuries. Millennia. A king has too few good years to push us forward. How many good years? It depends on the man, I suppose. Truly, we are a doomed species.

  “How many lives have been lost to pointless wars of succession? Two bloodthirsty men fight, neither of which is bright enough or honest enough to lead the nation. All the people can do is choose which fool they will follow to their ruin. It’s no wonder it’s taken us thousands of years to come as far as we have. But what is to be done?”

  Brooks halted and looked again at the audience. Yes, what is to be done? This was the question in their minds, because he had placed it there, and they were now hoping he had some sort of answer. “What if... what if we had a king who could remain, ageless, in those years of energy and wisdom? A firm hand, a wise hand. A man not afraid of mortality. A man not tempted by the sins of flesh. A man who would not need to occupy his time with securing a proper heir.”

  Several people blinked. They thought he was about to propose some sort of reform, but this new line of thought caught them by surprise. Confused, they listened on in eager silence.

  “I’m sure many of you remember Oswald Mordaunt? He was a dear friend who was lost in strange circumstances a few years ago.”

  Many people nodded at this.

  “I owed him a dear favor,” one man said suddenly and solemnly. “Never got a chance to pay him back before he passed.”

  Another man raised his glass, “I had a similar debt. More than I can speak in public. He was a good man.”

  “He was,” Brooks conceded, as if surprised by the response. “Many of us owe him such favors. And let’s be honest. The man is passed so we no longer need to protect him from the consequences of his own mercy. He was a healer, was he not?”

  People looked around nervously at this. None wanted to be the first to respond, but eventually slight nods gave way to greater nods, which led to emphatic agreement.

  “I’m willing to wager that all of you have known someone, or heard rumors of someone who was made whole or spared great suffering by the work of Oswald’s hands. We do not speak of it because magics - even benign, beneficial magics - are outlawed. Under pain of death. It was, in fact, this very work that led to Oswald’s demise. For those of you who have not heard the tale: The Church discovered The Viscount’s work. They came to his home, slew his personal guard, and murdered the man on his own doorstep. He died, because of what he did for all of you.” Brooks suddenly picked a face out of the crowd, “David, your wife. Where would she be today if not for Lord Mordaunt?”

  The man looked around the room, red-faced. Finally he stammered, “Dead.”

  Brooks pointed to another man, “Phillip? What about your daughter Anna?”

  Phillip swallowed, “She... she would be bedridden. Her legs were lame.”

  “He was a good man, would you agree? Despite the magics. Yes, I said the word. Despite the merciful, kind, and entirely free magic he performed on behalf of our loved ones, he was a good man, was he not?”

  The room agreed silently. Glasses were raised. Some heads bowed.

  “He was a good man, killed by superstitious fools,” Brooks said, agreeing with their agreeing with him. He watched their heads nodding. Brooks looked them in the eye and drew a deep breath, as if he was marshaling his courage. “I have good news. Shocking news, but good. As of three nights ago, Oswald is no longer dead.”

  The room was stunned. A woman gasped.

  “Yes. His powers are not only in healing, although I’m sure he would have preferred to remain a healer. He is no longer dead, and he is on his way to London. Barrington Oswald Mordaunt - Viscount of Ravenstead - will be king.”

  This was outrageous. People took offense. The wine and speech had softened them, but not enough for them to embrace the idea of a new king. They did not run off and cry treason. They merely scowled and shook their heads.

  Surprisingly, Brooks seemed to be smiling, like a card player about to reveal a winning hand, “Yes. He will be king. I have seen the man, and I can tell you he wields the power of a nation. An army of ten thousand could not overcome him. He will arrive in London the evening after next, and before morning he will rule this wayward nation. I see many of you are offended. Do not for a moment imagine that I am asking you to pledge to his cause. Heavens no. I do not expect you to take my word for his abilities, or to swear fealty to his throne before it is even established. While he is eager for your support, he fully expects to earn it.

  “No, the only thing I ask is that you not throw your life away opposing him. He does not love bloodshed and bears no ill will towards any of you, which I hope he demonstrated when he helped you in the past. He longs for the same things we do: A powerful, prosperous, and secure nation, under the leadership of a sensible king. He wants to make the realization of that dream as bloodless as possible. So please, for your own sake and for the sake of our nation, only stand aside and allow the contest to proceed. His majesty will need talented and experienced advisers and ministers in his kingdom. Yes! You will all keep your positions. I invited you here tonight because you represent the finest this nation has to offer. You are all people of skill and dignity, and it would be disastrous for your posts to fall to lesser men. Indeed, his majesty hopes to increase your responsibilities, and so your loss would impoverish the kingdom.”

  Against this they could say nothing. The people blinked and looked at one another, wondering what had just happened. They had just been offered their own positions - or perhaps a promotion - and all they had to do was not oppose a tremendously powerful man who seemed, by all accounts, to be a reasonable fellow. If his bid for the throne failed, they would not be implicated. If it was a success, then it was to their advantage.

  Heads had begun to nod again. Some people shrugged their shoulders. Certainly this royal politicking was over their heads. Surely it was better to sit and see how things turned out?

  Brooks was looking quite pleased with himself. He called for more wine. Their glasses were refilled, and he opened his mouth to propose a toast. Then he stopped. A woman had pushed through the crowd and now stood before him. Her white dress seemed all the brighter against the backdrop of dark suits.

  “Miss White!” Brooks said with sudden recognition. “I’m sure I would have remembered inviting you to my home.”

  “You didn’t,” she said coldly.

  “Of course! I’m sure Moxley gave you his invitation. The old fox. He should have come himself, but perhaps he feared for his safety. He's been exceedingly cautious as of late. Nevertheless, the offer is open to him as well.”

  “Offer?” she said warily.

  Brooks had been slightly shaken when she appeared, and for a moment his mask of charm had slipped and given way to irritation. But he had recovered now, and gave every indication that he was simply delighted to have her as a guest in his home. He took a friendly step towards her and smiled, “The same offer I gave to everyone else in
this room. If he will direct his ministry to stand aside, then he will retain his position in the new regime.” Brooks looked sideways at the other ministers. This was the bargain he'd offered, although perhaps it sounded unseemly when stated explicitly.

  “So you're buying supporters by offering them the jobs they already have? Perhaps you could entice me to join your cause by offering to give me the dress I'm already wearing?”

  “My dear, you have both your father's intellect and idealism. And like your father, they seem to always be at odds with each other.”

  “Do not pretend to know my father!” she scoffed.

  “Miss White, I tell you with all sincerity that he was a dear friend. Closer than I count most of the men in this room. We exchanged many letters over the years. Ask these people if I was not one of the most vocal supporters of Ethereal Affairs.”

  Alice looked around, and the faces seemed to assent to this position. “Then how do you reconcile your support for Mordaunt with your support for Ethereal Affairs?” she asked accusingly.

  “Reconcile them? They are both parts of a greater whole – a plan to bring about a reinvigorated Great Britain. Do not imagine that the King plans to allow all forms of magic. Practitioners of magic will be limited to the art of healing, just as His Majesty was. There will still be a place for witch-hunters like yourself in the coming days. If you like, you can continue to do your work and protect our nation from supernatural threats.”

  “Provided I turn a blind eye to the fact that an abomination sits on the throne?”

  There was murmuring at this, and guests exchanged surprised glances. Brooks faltered for the slightest moment. Alice had intended to simply confront Brooks, but now she realized that the two of them were now contending for the hearts of the audience.

  “You neglected to mention that, didn't you?” she pressed. “If you have your way, Britain will have an undead king.”

  “Miss White, you stand among the finest and most intelligent men in Britain. I'm sure everyone understood what I meant when I said that Oswald was no longer dead. How else do you propose we attain an ageless, incorruptible king?” The crowd was soothed by his flattery, but it was obvious that Brooks was wrong. Most of them hadn't grasped what their new king would be until Alice had explained it. While Alice had not won them over, she had shaken his grip on their hearts.