The Royal Sorceress

by Christopher Nuttall

  No one argued, not even Cannock. Gwen would have laughed if she’d had the time; the attack had stunned them so badly that they weren’t even bothering to care about who was issuing orders. Besides, some of them had heard Master Thomas putting her in charge. They would know better than to argue in the midst of a gun battle. Gwen hurried them down to the rear doors, sending several of the magicians to the servant’s quarters, looking for others to evacuate down to the ship. There were over four hundred servants in Cavendish Hall, but only ninety could be found. Gwen cursed under her breath as they assembled near the rear doors. The others would have to be left behind if they hadn’t been located by the time they left.

  Another explosion shook the building, followed rapidly by the sound of falling masonry. Cavendish Hall was on the verge of collapse. Gwen barked orders and reached out with her magic, blasting the rear doors open and revealing the path leading down to the jetty. Like most buildings on the riverside, Cavendish Hall had its own place for boats to dock, allowing magicians to land in London without having to make their way overland. It had always struck Gwen as the ultimate in lazy thinking, but it would save their lives now. The boat, a medium-sized yacht, was waiting just ahead of them. Gwen thought, for a moment, that they would be safe, just before the sound of shooting rang out and bullets started to crash into the magical field covering the escaping magicians. The Blazers turned and fired bolts of magic back towards the attackers, trying to keep them back. A fireball rose up from the gardens, followed by a sound like thunder. Someone was firing heavy artillery at the hall.

  “Get everyone into the boat,” Gwen ordered Cannock. “Once everyone is on board, cast off without waiting for me. Do you understand?”

  Cannock stared at her, and then nodded. Gwen took the opportunity to leap into the air and float high above Cavendish Hall, searching for the enemy gunners. They had taken up position in several nearby buildings and were pouring fire down onto the hall and anyone who showed their faces around it. One of the buildings was already on fire; the others were still firing, ignoring the flames that Master Thomas was directing in their direction. Gwen saw a flash of light out of the corner of her eye, just before another shell crashed into Cavendish Hall. The magical protection failed and part of the hall caved in, starting a collapse that sent the south wing crashing down in rubble. Gwen felt a flash of bitter grief – Cavendish Hall had been home to her, far more than the mansion her father had purchased in London – and then anger overrode her sense. She swooped down on the gun team and scattered them with her magic, careful to destroy the gun and its shells. The explosion sent a massive plume of smoke into the air, deafening her.

  Something reached out and disrupted her magic. Gwen found herself falling towards the ground, barely catching herself before she hit the ground head first. There was an enemy Mover out there, she realised, perhaps more than one. If he’d been well fed and well trained, he would certainly be more powerful than her. Instead of taking to the air again, she wrapped her magic around her as a shield and inched forward, looking for the enemy magician. There were several enemies gathered near one of the other houses, but none of them seemed to be magicians. It took her a moment to realise her mistake – and it almost killed her. Two of them were Blazers and they almost burned through her shield before she jumped back.

  Gwen kept moving backwards, cursing her own stupidity. There was no law that stated that magicians had to wear Sorcerers Black – and the rebel magicians would have defied it anyway. Their magicians would be almost impossible to separate out from the common herd, at least as long as they kept their magic to themselves. A Mover would be impossible to detect; even a Blazer would be tricky, provided that they were careful. Her blunder had almost managed to get her killed. She was still moving backwards when someone dropped to the ground behind her; Gwen spun around, expecting to see Jack. Instead, Master Thomas scowled at her. He didn’t look happy.

  “I thought I told you to get out of here,” he said, sharply. The sound of nearby gunfire was getting louder. Gwen realised, in a flash of horror, that one of the plumes of smoke was coming from near the Tower of London. Jack was clearly attacking it again, daring the warders to stop him. “There are too many rebel magicians here for us to defeat without help.”

  Gwen stared at him. He sounded...defeated. There was no reason to give up, surely? Cavendish Hall might have been partly wrecked, but most of the magicians had escaped with their lives and they were far from the only magicians in Britain. Jack was dangerous – and his questionable sanity gave him an unfair advantage – but he wasn’t unstoppable.

  “But...”

  “No buts,” Master Thomas said. “We need to get back to the river.”

  They made their way slowly back towards Cavendish Hall. Gwen took one glance at the building as it came into view and wished that she hadn’t. Flame was spreading through the upper levels of Cavendish Hall, consuming the books, artefacts and even Gwen’s clothes. She had never been obsessed with clothes, nothing like her mother, but seeing the dresses she’d had designed especially for her work burning left her feeling bitter, almost as if she was losing a part of herself. Cavendish Hall could be rebuilt, she told herself, but the Royal Sorcerers Corps might never recover from the blow to its prestige.

  On impulse, she hurled herself into the air, spinning around to take in London. The city was burning; she could see fires everywhere, with gunfire echoing out in the distance. An airship was heading away from the city slowly, struggling through the air as the wind changed rapidly. Gwen wondered if it would come down amidst the city before it finally managed to stagger off into the distance. A group of magicians were flying through the air towards the Tower of London. She couldn’t tell if they were friendly or hostile. Jack’s rebels wore no uniform.

  Her eyes narrowed as she saw something else, something she should have noticed from the start. There were dead bodies lying everywhere. Ever since necromancy had been demonstrated and undead monsters had become a deadly threat, all bodies had to be cremated. Doctor Norwell had even said it was the one law that had widespread public approval. There was something utterly wrong about seeing so many dead bodies on the street. No one was even gathering them up for incineration. When she’d been younger, she’d read a horror story about the outbreak of undead on Haiti, years ago. Was London staring at a similar possibility?

  She felt a gentle pressure in her mind and dropped back down to Master Thomas. He looked more worried than angry, thankfully, and she took the opportunity to outline what she’d seen for him. Gwen had half-expected for him to insist that they made their way to the Houses of Parliament to assist the MPs in escaping the chaos, but instead he merely suggested that they head down to the jetty. Cannock had managed to get the boat undocked and out onto the water, but it was easy for both of them to fly over the Thames and land neatly in the boat. It was so crammed with passengers that Gwen wondered if the Movers should remain in the air. But how long could they stay in the air with enemy Movers waiting for a chance to send them falling into the water?

  The Margareta wasn’t the only boat heading down to the sea. Hundreds of other boats were taking sail, fleeing the chaos gripping London town. Some of them had clearly been commandeered by rich folk with sense, others were crammed with passengers to the point where a single mistake might capsize the boat and drown everyone on board. Master Thomas snorted in disapproval as a richer man used a whip to discourage swimmers from climbing aboard his boat, before making a slight motion with his hands and hurling the offending man into the Thames. Gwen shook her head sadly as the fleet of boats picked up speed. An entire tide of humanity was fleeing, leaving the city behind. How many of them, she wondered, would return to find that their houses had been burned to the ground, if they ever returned at all. England wasn’t France or Prussia, used to heavy population movements in times of war or unrest. There would be no provisions for the refugees downstream. Those who had friends and family living elsewhere could probably make their way there, but the on
es who had lost everything? What would happen to them?

  “Look,” someone called. “It’s the Navy!”

  Gwen followed the pointing finger and nodded. A massive wooden-hulled ship of the line was sitting in the river, watching for...what? The Royal Navy could hardly bombard London into submission. Her father had once commented that the day of the wooden ships was almost over; some of the new developments in steam engines and ironclad hulls would make the wooden ships little more than expensive targets. And yet, the ship was dauntingly attractive, with the Union Jack flying from her stern. How could anything hope to defy the wooden walls that protected England and made her great? No nation could compete with the English at sea.

  “Useless,” Master Thomas said, bitterly. “The rebels aren’t trying to get out to sea, are they?”

  “No, sir,” Cannock said, “but the scrum will be held if they try.”

  “One Blazer would be able to set that ship on fire,” Gwen pointed out. “And then what would happen to the crew?”

  Master Thomas said nothing. Instead, he floated into the air and drifted over towards the warship. Gwen hesitated, and then followed him, hearing the shouts of the refugees echoing in her ears. The vessel’s commander, a Captain wearing a magnificent uniform, looked surprised to see Master Thomas, but was instantly respectful. He clearly knew just how much power Master Thomas had at his command, both direct and indirect. Besides, the Navy knew little of what was happening above them in London.

  “You need to watch yourself,” Master Thomas said, after a brief explanation. “I’m assigning a pair of Movers and Blazers to you – and a Talker to keep you in touch with us. God alone knows who’s in charge at the moment.”

  The Captain tossed an odd glance at Gwen, and then nodded. Some sailors, Gwen recalled, thought that having a woman on board their ships would bring bad luck. Gwen suspected that this particular ship had already had its stroke of bad luck. Besides, there was no such thing as good or bad luck. The pieces fell wherever they chose.

  “Understood, sir,” the Captain said. “Where are you going?”

  “The planned emergency refuge for the government is Hampton Court,” Master Thomas said, slowly. “But that may be too close to London for safety. I’ve been trying to contact Talkers who should be with the government; Lord Liverpool should have been rushed out of the city as soon as the crisis began. If not Hampton Court, then Oxford...”

  Gwen smiled to herself. King Charles had fled to Oxford after his disastrous attempt to capture his enemies in the Long Parliament. And that hadn’t ended well for the King. Charles had lost his head, an ironic end for a man whose grandmother – Mary Queen of Scots – had met the same fate at the hands of her cousin Elizabeth. Who knew what would be going through Lord Liverpool’s mind if he had to retrace the long-dead King’s steps?

  The thought reminded her about a different King. “Master Thomas,” she said, “what about King George?”

  Master Thomas sighed. “There’s nothing we can do for him now,” he said. “We’ll just have to hope that he’s safe.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  We have men positioned at all of the planned points,” Ruddy reported. “The soldiers are in position and ready to move.”

  Jack smiled. The confusion that had once overwhelmed military commanders – making them incapable of knowing what was happening outside their own positions – was a thing of the past, thanks to Talkers. He had enough Talkers scattered around London to keep the different units in contact, even though they weren’t as capable as those working for the enemy. But then, the Government had always offered the best terms to Talkers. The British Empire never had enough of them to keep the different parts of the Empire in contact.

  “Tell them that they can move in,” he ordered. “I want the MPs alive if possible; the defenders are to be killed on the spot.”

  Ruddy quirked an eyebrow. “They won’t surrender if they know that they will be killed after capture,” he pointed out. “They need to think that there is a chance of life after the revolution.”

  “Traitors,” Jack snarled. The dragoons had taken the King’s Shilling, joining the army instead of the underground. They had helped to crush dissent and rebellion in the past. Why should the rebels show them any mercy? They certainly hadn’t shown any to their victims. “Why should we offer them a chance at life?”

  “Because it’s a great deal easier to govern if you convince people that they have a future,” Ruddy said, mildly. “If they have nothing to lose, they’ll dig in and fight to the death.”

  Jack frowned as the sound of explosions echoed in the distance. London, perversely for the capital of the greatest empire the world had ever seen, was barely defended. The Trained Bands had never been fully trusted by Charles II and his successors, while the regiments had either been tied down or eliminated during their march into the poorer parts of the city. The security of London rested in the hands of the Royal Navy – and the Navy’s Marines didn’t have the manpower to secure London. They’d planned for an invasion from France or Spain. Large-scale unrest and a planned revolution had never been considered. And yet, what men were trying to defend the established order were holding firm. They might just hold out long enough to break the revolution.

  “Very well,” he said, quietly. “Tell them that we will accept surrender – but make damn sure that they can’t change their minds once they’re safe. We can shift them to one of the prisons and make sure that they stay out of temptation’s way.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ruddy said. He nodded to his Talker, a young girl who looked barely old enough to walk the streets. She would never have been accepted by the Royal College. “I’ll see to it personally.”

  Jack nodded and launched himself into the air. The Houses of Parliament and St. James’ Palace were hardly armed fortresses. Smoke was drifting up from where a bomb or a shell had landed near to the House of Lords. Jack wouldn’t mourn any of the lords if they were killed in the fighting, but it was extremely difficult to force a surrender if you killed the only people who could surrender. In times of war or unrest, the MPs would probably have planned to make their way to the Tower of London, which was why Jack had assigned no less than three hundred men to seizing the tower. The Warders wouldn’t be able to hold them back, not with much of their manpower sent to the slums. There would be nowhere for the MPs to hide.

  The handful of guards – and a number of MPs who had military experience – were holding out as best as they could, but the outcome was inevitable. Jack had planned his assault carefully, sending in men from all directions while using Movers to land troops on the roof. The defenders had taken up positions to snipe at his men – some of the lords, excellent huntsmen, were proving to be alarmingly good snipers – but they didn’t have the manpower to survive long enough to escape through the tunnels. Besides, Jack knew where the tunnels led, unless they’d been changed or expanded in the years since he’d abandoned Master Thomas. St. James’ Palace was already under siege. A party of armed men were already on their way to the more clandestine exit on the other side of the Thames. There was a good chance that they might even take the King himself prisoner.

  A bullet cracked out – and bounced off his magic. Jack allowed himself to float down towards the roof of the House of Commons, where a handful of MPs were still hiding from his men. Jack knocked them down with his magic and waited for his men to secure them, even though he wanted to blaze them down or throw them over the edge of the roof. The lords couldn’t be faulted for being lords, but the commons – the MPs elected by the commoners who met the stringent property qualifications – should have stood up for the common herd. Some of them had, over the years, but most of the others were more interested in bettering themselves than in bettering their fellow man.

  He followed his men through the door and down the stairs into the House of Commons. The building shook several times as the assault parties used explosives to bring down the outer doors, allowing them to storm the building. A handful of
MPs and their assistants were cowering in one of the upper rooms, praying that rescue would come before they were captured or killed by the rebels. They had no time to react when Jack led his men into the room, had them searched roughly and then tied up on the floor. There would be time to work out who they’d captured – and what use could be made of them – once the fighting was over.

  “Keep heading downwards and search the entire building,” he ordered. “And watch out for hideouts.”

  It had been years since he’d stood in the Houses of Parliament, long before he’d left Master Thomas and joined the underground. The public were not allowed into the building, a measure that was supposed to be for the MPs protection, but was actually to prevent the public from seeing just how many backroom deals were made between the commons and the lords. What did the unease of one’s constituents matter when there was a peerage to be had? Peers were not allowed to sit within the House of Commons, but far too many peers had risen up from the House of Commons. And peers didn’t have to be elected.

  He kicked down the door that lead into the Commons Chamber and marched inside. It was almost exactly as he remembered; two long rows of benches for the MPs, a large and ornate chair for the Speaker and a set of tables in the centre of the room. It was strange to reflect on how the home of the British Empire was probably the freest country in the world, but still kept most of its population in bondage. That would change, he promised himself, and the revolution would soon be exported to Europe. Jack had no illusions about why the French had supported him – unrest in Britain would make it harder for the British to prevent the French from realising their designs on the Ottoman Empire – but they were in for a nasty shock. The movement had been international for years. Jack would see the French peasants and the Russian serfs liberated in his lifetime.

  The Speaker rose from his chair to challenge Jack, showing no small amount of bravery. Martin Pathway was old, old enough to remember the American Revolution and George III’s slide into madness. He was an elderly man wearing a long white wig and his robes of office; by law and custom, the Speaker was meant to be politically neutral. Pathway had been no better than many of his predecessors; he’d taken bribes, allowed himself to be pressured and almost certainly promised a peerage if he didn’t upset Lord Liverpool too much. Even if he retired without a peerage, he would have enough money to live a life of luxury.