“If you put all the pieces of the True Cross together,” Master Thomas observed, archly, “you would have enough wood to build a brand new ark.”
“It’s belief that is important,” Wells protested. He no longer sounded impressive, at least to Gwen’s ears. “People believe – and that brings the magic.”
“Really?” Master Thomas enquired. He picked up a box. “The skull of John the Baptist,” he said. He put it down and picked up another one. “The skull of John the Baptist – as a young man. Do you really believe that anyone would be fooled?”
“You might be surprised,” Wells said. “People want to believe.”
He picked up one of the coloured bottles and held it out to Gwen. “This is a love potion,” he said. “In one sense, it’s just coloured water; in another, it gives a young man the courage to make the first move. Perhaps the girl would be interested in him if he actually asked her for her hand – and the potion encourages him, gives him confidence.”
Gwen shuddered. The thought of a potion that would make her – or anyone else – fall in love with someone against her will was chilling. A Charmer could presumably make someone fall in love with him, but that could be resisted. The idea of a love potion...she shook her head in disgust. Looking around the store, she realised that almost everything was fake. There was no magic in the room at all, except what they’d brought in with them. Wells made a living by fooling his customers into believing that he could work magic.
A small pile of books caught her eye and she glanced down at them, curious. They promised to teach her all kinds of magic, along with Latin and Arabic words that could be used to focus and harness the power of the natural world – or summon demons from the pits of Hell. One of them, written by a character known only as the Mad Arab, promised to put its owner in contact with beings from another space and time, beings so powerful that they could destroy the human world in the blink of an eye. The illustration – a giant mutated octopus – didn’t give her any confidence in the book’s value. Besides, if the book was genuinely that powerful, why wasn’t Wells already ruling the world?
“Hope springs eternal,” Master Thomas said, when Gwen asked. “Particularly in the minds of the deluded.”
He chuckled and picked up one of the parchments. “This allows you to curse your enemies,” he said. “You’d be better off spending the money on drink, getting them drunk, and then cutting their throats while they are unable to resist. The murderer would still face the gallows, but at least he wouldn’t run afoul of the Demonic Powers Act.”
“I provide a valuable service,” Wells protested.
“You take money from the gullible and convince them that they can do magic,” Master Thomas said. He seemed more amused than annoyed. “You have them paying through the nose for worthless parchments and tin talismans you claim are silver.”
Wells picked up a silver dagger and held it out to Master Thomas. “Designed to stop a werewolf,” he said. “It’s pure silver.”
“It’s shiny tin,” Master Thomas countered. “You wouldn’t leave a silver dagger out here, would you?”
He stamped towards the door and headed out into the street. Gwen followed him, realising that they weren’t entirely alone. A small crowd of curious onlookers had gathered on the other side of the street, watching with awe as the Royal Sorcerer departed the magical shop. They’d believe in Wells, she realised sourly, now that they’d seen the Royal Sorcerer himself visiting his store. Whatever irritation Wells had felt over their visit, it would be more than amply compensated for by the new custom – and the money it brought to his coffers.
“A fake,” Master Thomas said, as the carriage rumbled to life and headed down towards Cavendish Hall. “Still, he serves a useful purpose. It just isn’t the purpose he thinks he serves.”
He eyed Gwen, expectantly. She frowned, considering. Master Thomas hadn’t said anything about why they were visiting a fake magic store, let alone why they were not shutting it down for practicing illicit magic. But then, Wells hadn’t been practicing illicit magic; he’d been nothing more than a fake. That might not impress a jury; God alone knew how many people had been conned out of their hard-earned money by Wells and other frauds like him.
“He convinces people that magic isn’t what it is,” she said, finally. It was the only answer that made sense. Before Master Thomas had recruited her, she hadn’t known much about real magic – and a great deal of nonsense. Anyone trying to learn without the Royal College’s assistance would be at a severe disadvantage. “It cuts down on the number of underground magicians.”
“Quite,” Master Thomas agreed. “And he helps to confuse people about what magic can actually do. It keeps them respectful.”
His lips twitched. “Would you care to guess how many people among our lords and masters patronise his store?”
Gwen looked up, surprised. They weren’t exactly in the Rookery or one of the other poor – and therefore criminal – parts of town, but Wells had his store on the edge of respectable London. Gwen had heard of it long before becoming Master Thomas’s apprentice; the younger gentry often dropped hints of roguish dealings on the edge of respectable London, apparently under the impression that it gave them an air of mystery that women would find irresistible. The ones who did patronise the area were always careful to be out of it before night fell. There were limits, even for men born and bred to consider themselves the lords and masters of the world.
“Hundreds,” Gwen said, finally. Master Thomas nodded. “But why?”
“As I said,” Master Thomas said, “hope springs eternal in the minds of the deluded.”
He settled back into his seat as the carriage rattled across one of London’s bridges. Gwen caught sight of a ship waiting for the bridge to rise so it could carry on down towards the sea. It was surrounded by a flight of seagulls looking for scraps they could scoop up from the river and eat while flying through the sky. Once, she’d envied the birds their freedom. Now, she understood how they had to feel. They were dependent upon humans feeding them to survive.
“I have a question,” Gwen said, finally. She hadn’t dared ask before, but Master Thomas seemed to be in a good mood. “Who trained the rogue Master?”
Master Thomas stared at her, just long enough to make Gwen uncomfortable. “You’ll know all that when you are ready to hear it,” he said. “You’re not ready to hear it now.”
Gwen stared back at him, refusing to be intimidated or browbeaten into silence. “He’s loose in London and he may know about me,” Gwen said. She had no doubt of that. Master Thomas’s apprentice would have kept the aristocracy gossiping for months even if she’d been a male; a female apprentice was unheard of. “I need to know now.”
There was a long, chilling pause. Gwen was just starting to wonder if she’d gone too far when Master Thomas nodded, finally. “We’ll talk about it in my rooms,” he said, firmly. The carriage rattled as it passed through the gates and up the lane towards Cavendish Hall. “And you’re right. You do have a need to know.”
Gwen was still puzzling over that as he led her through the doors, up the sinister staircase and into his rooms. Had he been waiting for her to ask, to see if she had the confidence to proceed against his silence, or had he merely changed his mind when she pressed for information? She pushed the thought aside as she entered his rooms, glancing around to see what luxuries were afforded to the Royal Sorcerer. Gwen had never been in his rooms – at least not physically – and she was almost disappointed. There were a small set of bookshelves, a rug that had come from India and a pair of paintings covering one wall. The remainder of the rooms were almost barren, as if Master Thomas had no time for luxuries. It was an attitude her mother would have found incomprehensible.
A maid – an elderly woman, wearing the black and white formal dress beloved of London’s society – appeared out of a side room. Master Thomas ordered tea as he motioned for Gwen to sit in one of the comfortable armchairs. Spartan the rooms might appear to be, but Master
Thomas enjoyed his comforts. It struck Gwen, again, that Master Thomas was old. He’d been a young man at the dawn of magic, perhaps the oldest surviving magician from the days when magic had saved the British Empire from the American rebels. How much history had he seen, Gwen asked herself, and how much did he know that had been kept from the British public?
The maid served a small pot of tea and handed Gwen a china cup. She sipped it slowly, waiting for Master Thomas to drink his own tea before speaking. He seemed to be lost in his thoughts, so she looked away towards the paintings. They showed three young men, wearing sorcerer’s black; they seemed young, confident...looking towards the future and daring it to do its worst. One of them, Gwen was shocked to realise, was Master Thomas. His chin was unmistakable. The other two were strangers.
“There were three of us in those days,” Master Thomas said. “Myself, Master Saul and Master Luke. We designed the Royal College in the days when High Society and the establishment weren’t quite sure what to make of us. We planned to change the world.”
His eyes closed, as if he was looking into the past. “We succeeded,” he added. “We got what we wanted. It didn’t make us happy.”
He opened his eyes and looked at Gwen. “Masters are rare – but then, you already know that,” he said. Gwen nodded. If there had been a male Master of her age, Gwen herself would never have had the chance to learn magic properly. “I saw my friends die; one died in an accident, when we didn’t fully understand our powers; the other died in combat against the French, back during the wars at the turn of the century. I wondered if I was the only Master left alive – and if there would ever be a fourth. It delighted me when I discovered Master Jackson. He was much younger than me and I allowed myself to be convinced that he would be able to take over the position of Royal Sorcerer when I retired.”
Master Thomas shook his head, slowly. “But there was too much I didn’t know about him,” he added. “I didn’t know that at the time, but afterwards...he was a perfect pupil in many ways. He learned quickly and well, faster than anyone else – I expected no less from a Master. He even taught me more about how the powers worked together than I expected.”
He stared down at his hands for a long moment. “But there was too much I didn’t know about him,” he repeated. “I didn’t see the signs of trouble for years – and then I convinced myself that I was mistaken. He had sworn an oath to the Prince Regent to serve and uphold the establishment, but in the waves of unrest sweeping the country he chose to forget his oath and join the rebels. I tried to stop him five years ago.” He hesitated. “I believed that he was dead.”
Gwen leaned forward. “But if he escaped,” she asked, “where did he go?”
“He was – is – a Master,” Master Thomas reminded her. “If he’d gone to the French or the Russians, they’d have been delighted to have him. God knows their magical programs have always been behind ours. And then there’s the wretched Corsican who made himself the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. He would sell his entire harem for the services of a Master Magician. Or he might have gone underground in Britain itself. I thought he was dead and that the matter was at an end.”
He shook his head, very slowly. “Master Jackson hates the establishment,” he said. “I don’t know why – something happened, something that he never chose to tell me. But he turned against the government when the unrest started sweeping through the cities, forcing the government to crack down harder and harder. Magic had to be used against Englishmen. There are a great many people out there who hate us for that, even if they understand why we did it...”
“And people like Lord Blackburn, who think it was our birthright,” Gwen said. Master Thomas nodded, sourly. “Was Master Jackson ever a Darwinist?”
“The Darwinists were barely a concept during the unrest,” Master Thomas said. “Charles Darwin’s work helped to justify everything we did retroactively. I sometimes wonder if some people accepted his words out of guilt; it’s a great deal easier to crack down on people if you regard them as subhuman, unworthy to be considered one’s equals.”
He shook his head. “I swore an oath,” he said, firmly. “England is still the finest country in the world; it has the finest ships, the finest trade, the finest magicians...even the finest government. There is more freedom in England than anywhere else on the globe. Even Cromwell was unable to alter that truth.”
Gwen frowned, inwardly. The official story about Oliver Cromwell was that he had been a regicide, who had murdered King Charles I with his own hands. She’d read enough to doubt that the official version of history was actually true, but asking the wrong questions would draw unwelcome attention – even for a prospective Royal Sorceress. After meeting the King – and realising how power was finely balanced between the Monarch, the aristocracy and Parliament – she thought she understood how he had felt. The wrong people in power could do untold damage to the country.
“Master Jackson was always headstrong,” Master Thomas added, slowly. “What he did – confronting me directly – was a declaration of war. By harming so many rich and powerful people, he has made it impossible for any compromise to he formed – exactly what he wanted to happen. His ultimate goal is to tear down the establishment and replace it with a democracy, to hand the country over to the poor. Men and women who are not bred or trained to rule can only drive the country to ruin.”
His lips twitched. “Indeed, had the American rebels concentrated on uniting their forces, rather than squabbling, George Washington might have become their first King, rather than hanging from a gallows in Philadelphia,” he said. “I watched him die. He died bravely, unlike some of his fellows. And that opportunist Arnold managed to change sides quickly enough to avoid joining him on the scaffold.”
He glanced over towards the paintings. “You may encounter Master Jackson again,” he said. “When you do, remember one thing; he isn’t entirely sane. He had no sense of the long-term view when I knew him and I don’t think he has changed at all. You cannot trust him to think of anything, but his cause and his goal. Don’t turn your back on him.”
“I see,” Gwen said. She trusted Master Thomas – and yet it was obvious that he wasn’t telling her everything. “Do you think that we will ever find him?”
“He’s probably plotting his next move,” Master Thomas said. “Someone like him will not be able to remain underground forever.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Darkness fell over London like an enveloping shroud.
Jack perched on a manor’s rooftop, cloaked by the shadows, watching Cavendish Hall. It was strange, staring at his old home – the first place in the world where he had truly felt happy. But the happiness had been a lie, the result of his own arrogance and ignorance, the ignorance when he hadn’t known the truth about his origins. And when he found out, he’d known that he could no longer stay at Cavendish Hall.
He moved his gaze from window to window, wondering which room held Master Thomas’s apprentice. Where had she come from, he asked himself, and what did she make of it all? Master Thomas wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes he’d made with Jack, yet he had had no choice but to take on an unconventional apprentice. A girl would discover some unsavoury truths about magicians on her own, but would she break free of her mental shackles? Or perhaps Master Thomas would have Charmed her into obedience. Charm was deadly, even though it wasn’t anything like as spectacular as Moving or Blazing. A person who had been charmed carefully enough would never realise what had happened to them. Their thoughts would simply flow into the channels created by the Charmer.
A movement caught his eye and he smiled as a dark-clad figure exited the side of the building. He didn’t go down to the main gate, but walked through the gardens to the fence and scrambled over the top, showing remarkable skill. Jack turned and slipped from chimney to chimney, shadowing the dark figure as he headed away from Cavendish Hall. Few people, in his experience, bothered to look up, even when they were trying to remain unseen and avoid hidden watchers. Th
is man was no different. He moved with the precision of an expert, but without the habits that a reconnaissance patrol would have learned in the field. The Duke of India would have been upset if any of his men had shown so little tradecraft.
Jack caught sight of his face, briefly, and his smile deepened. Lord Blackburn himself, heir to one of the most powerful families in Britain – and a Charmer, perhaps the most powerful Charmer in the world. There were whispered stories about Lord Blackburn, stories that suggested that all of his friends were under his spell and all of his servants had had their minds twisted until they could do naught but obey. Jack knew that such stories were, if anything, understatements. Lord Blackburn had been a manipulative little shit even before he’d developed his Charm. The Darwinists had projected themselves onto the universe and had come to believe that they had a right to rule. It said more about their insecurities than it did about God’s grand design.
Lord Blackburn moved with easy confidence through the darkened streets. There was little need to fear footpads, robbers and drunkards in the richer parts of town. The Bow Street Runners patrolled heavily, just to ensure that their lords and masters remained undisturbed in their beds. In other times, Jack would have taken the opportunity to rid the world of a few collaborators – men who helped their oppressors control the poor – but he had other business right now. Unless he missed his guess, Lord Blackburn was heading to the farm. And Jack, whatever else he’d been able to pull from the rumours that surrounded Cavendish Hall, had not been able to locate the farm. There were times when he suspected that aristocratic embarrassment, far more than anything else, helped conceal some of the nation’s darker secrets. The truths were buried under a mountain of nonsense.
He nearly lost Lord Blackburn twice before his quarry finally reached an old house on the edge of the Thames. It was closer to one of Jack’s warehouses than he cared to think about, but it hardly mattered – at least as long as the Royal College didn’t draw attention to the area by mounting patrols around their building. The handful of night watchmen on duty looked properly slovenly; only their posture, and the weapons ill-concealed around their persons, suggested that they were anything more than urban poor working for pennies. Few people trusted night watchmen in London. The guilds controlled the manpower and most of them were corrupt. Jack knew that warehouses and stores had often been burgled by their own guards.
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