“We seem to be in charge of the city,” Davy said. He looked tired, Jack noted. Davy had never been a particularly inspiring leader, but he was a genius at organisation and managing large numbers of people. He’d been a foreman in a factory before his brother had been badly injured in an industrial accident that had cost him the use of his legs. The factory owner had tossed him out onto the streets – and Davy had left the following day, vowing revenge. “We’ve moved most of the toffees into our safekeeping here and fed them on gruel. Some of them had the nerve to complain.”
Jack smiled. Gruel was either unpleasant or tasteless – and cheap, cheap enough to be fed to workhouse children or factory drudges. It provided basic nourishment, but little more besides. The rich population of London would never have had to taste it until now. Maybe it would give them a new sympathy for the poor.
“We’ve also been distributing food to the new volunteers,” Davy added. “Many of them are happy to work with us for food and drink, thankfully. I’ve put the ones who we can’t arm yet on clearing up the bodies and moving them to the crematorium. Thousands of people died in the fighting, Jack...”
“Thousands more will die when the Army comes for us,” Jack said. He scowled down at the map. “Have we heard anything from the Government?”
“They’re in Oxford, apparently,” Ruddy said. “One of our agents flashed us a message; there’s an entire regiment in the city, providing security for the government. There won’t be an uprising in Oxford, I fear.”
He hesitated. Jack recognised the signs of a man with bad news. “The Duke of India escaped,” Ruddy added. “I believe that he will have made it to Oxford.”
Jack swore. The Duke of India was not much liked by anyone – particularly his men – but they respected him and trusted him not to get them killed for nothing. His presence outside London would be a major rallying point for the government – and no one doubted his competence. He’d unite what forces had escaped London with newcomers from Ireland and then bring them back to the rebel-held city. The street-fighting in Paris had been ghastly and hundreds of thousands had died. God alone knew what would happen when the British Army attempted to secure London, except that it was going to be bloody. Jack and his followers had nowhere to go.
“The assassins misfired, then,” Jack said. He’d taken the risk of assigning their best Blazer and Mover team to the task of assassinating the Duke, but the Duke had earned his honours in combat. And magic didn’t make a person invincible. He should have left the attack on Parliament to Davy and Ruddy, while taking care of the Duke himself. Jack shook his head, dismissing the irritating thought. Hindsight was always perfectly clear. “We’ll have to see if we can get a team up to Oxford and cut off the government’s head.”
Ruddy snorted. “I’m afraid not,” he said. He tapped the map. “We’ve been sending scouts out of the city. The remaining Dragoons have been operating in flying patrols around the outskirts, intimidating the farmers and blocking our routes out of the city. We could probably scatter them if we marched our army out of the city, but that would only disperse our force – unless we head for Oxford now.”
Jack hesitated. He knew the strengths – and limitations – of the force he’d built in secret. The men weren’t ready to face a stronger enemy and the Duke Of India would have at least one regiment on hand to defend Oxford. At best, the rebels would have to take a staunchly defended city. And if that misfired...they’d be intercepted outside Oxford by a regiment with much better training and experience. It would take time to train up the volunteers, time he suspected he wouldn’t have. They would have to hope that they could break the Duke’s army when it returned to London.
“We’ll consider it in the morning,” he said. He yawned, suddenly. “Make sure that the Talkers are replaced before they get too tired to function, and then have someone wake me when the sun starts to rise. Get your own replacements here and then get some sleep yourself...”
Walking out of the door and heading up towards one of the cells, he was surprised to run right into Olivia.. The girl was sitting halfway up the stairs, her hands clasping her legs. She looked...distracted, almost as if her mind was elsewhere. Jack placed his hand on her shoulder and she jumped, surprised.
“Oliver,” he said, using her male name, “what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Olivia admitted. She rubbed the side of her head, frustrated. “I just feel...wrong.”
Jack leaned down to peer into her eyes. Sometimes, when a person was hit on the head, their thoughts started to wander. But Olivia’s eyes were clear blue, as always. And who would have struck her? The rebels held the Tower of London. Who would have risked hitting Jack’s personal messenger? Even if someone had seen through her male guise, they’d have to be insane to risk irritating a Master Magician.
“Get some sleep,” he said, finally. It wasn’t much, but short of asking Lucy to leave the wounded and check Olivia personally, there wasn’t much else he could do. Perhaps it was tiredness; Olivia had been awake since dawn, before the world had turned upside down. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He helped Olivia up the stairs, opened one of the unlocked cells and random and was relieved to discover that it was empty. Jack broke the lock, just in case, and waved Olivia towards the bed. She hesitated, perhaps fearing that he was going to insist on joining her, before Jack closed the door, leaving her alone. He walked down the corridor to the next cell, opened the door and staggered over towards the bed. There would be enough time to sleep, he told himself firmly, before something happened that required his attention.
The bed was soft and warm. Jack closed his eyes; instantly, he felt his mind begin to wander. He’d never been as capable with the Sight as Master Thomas, but he could visualise the Tower of London, despite the magic woven into its stone. Nothing seemed to be amiss...but now that he was alone, something felt wrong. It hovered on the edge of his mind, taunting him. Something was wrong. Olivia had sensed it and now Jack understood. It was a nagging presence, something that could be ignored, but never pushed away.
Puzzled, Jack felt sleep overcoming him. His last thought was a memory. They’d never identified Olivia’s magic, despite running all the basic tests. Perhaps she had a new, undiscovered talent, much like Lucy was a Healer. Or maybe her talent wasn’t new at all, but something old and very rare. Maybe she was a Master, the second female Master known to exist. Or maybe...
He was asleep before the thought took him any further.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
London was wreathed in shadow, almost invisible against the gloom.
Gwen felt exhaustion tugging at her breast as she flew onwards. Before the uprising, she’d seen London as a city of lights, illuminated by the glow of streetlights and noble mansions. Now, London seemed almost dark, with only a handful of lights glimmering out in the darkness. She could see a couple of fires from where she knew noble mansions to be, roaring up into the dark skies. It reminded her that her family was missing, lost somewhere in London or perhaps among the crowds of refugees that had fled the city. If she went to Pall Mall to look, would she find her brother – or would there be victorious rebels, laughing as they destroyed the buildings?
Master Thomas was still ahead of her. She couldn’t understand how he managed to keep flying, not when it had taken almost all of her energy to remain in the air. He was older than her, yet he’d been a practicing magician for almost all of his adult life. Maybe he knew tricks to conserve magic while flying, tricks unknown to his young apprentice. Gwen’s entire body was burning, as if she was running out of magic. She found herself hacking and coughing as she started to descend, against her will. The magic that was holding her up in the air was starting to fade away...she barely had a moment to react before the ground seemed a great deal closer. Gwen grabbed for her remaining magic, no longer caring if she lost Master Thomas, and slowed her fall as much as she could. It was still jarring when the ground came up and hit her.
She found herself lyin
g on the grass, one hand in a cold pond. The shock of impact had stunned her and she took several minutes to pull herself together enough to lift her hand out of the water. Something had been nibbling at her fingers; London had been indulging a craze for fish-keeping over the last few years and everyone who was anyone – or thought that they were anyone – had installed a fishpond. Some of the fish were very rare, brought in from the colonies; Lady Mary had been surprisingly proud of her fishpond. She hadn’t done any of the work of actually building it, of course.
A hand fell on her shoulder and Gwen started. She hadn’t sensed anyone nearby, but she’d been so focused on her flight that she’d neglected her other senses. Her mind swam dizzily the moment she reached for her magic and she realised, grimly, that she was almost helpless. She could do nothing more than lie on the grass like a ragdoll...
“You are a very lucky girl,” Master Thomas said, from out of the darkness. Gwen almost sagged in relief. Her mind had been pointing out that whoever had found her might have dark intentions. “And you’re also a very naughty one. You should have stayed in Oxford.”
A light glimmered in front of her as Master Thomas knelt down beside her, heedless of the wet grass against his expensive suit. “I couldn’t push myself that far when I was your age,” he said. “But then...what kind of magician would I be if I hadn’t known that I was being followed?”
Gwen tried to speak, but her body was completely drained. “I knew almost from the moment you took flight,” Master Thomas said. “I should have ordered you back home, but I was curious to see how long you could stay in the air...it was a mistake. You’re completely drained, on the verge of losing everything. And I don’t have time to stay with you.”
He reached into his belt and produced a small gourd. Gwen felt him reaching under her and turning her over, so she lay on her back staring up at the night sky. Master Thomas knelt in front of her again and placed the gourd against her lips. Something – water, but like no water she’d ever tasted – fell into her mouth and down her throat. There was a moment of nothingness...and then she felt a sudden flash of energy. She found herself sucking desperately on the gourd, like a baby at her mother’s breast, and the flashes of energy grew stronger and stronger. A moment later, she sat upright, staring down at herself. The energy burned through her body, washing away the tiredness that had rendered her helpless. She felt almost as if she could fly around the entire world.
“What...?” Her mouth felt as if she hadn’t spoken in years. She swallowed hard and tried again. “What was that?”
Master Thomas frowned. “Back when we were collecting legends of magic to study, we came across a legend of a druid who could brew a potion that gave the drinker superhuman strength,” he said. “It was nonsense, of course, but it gave Doctor Norwell an idea. What if an Infuser were to infuse magic into a liquid, which could then be drunk by another magician? In theory, the second magician should be able to draw on the first’s magic.”
He shrugged. “It didn’t work the first few times we tried it, until Master Luke tried it – and it worked, for him. We kept experimenting and eventually we discovered that it took both Infusing and Changing to make a magical potion – and combining the two talents could only be done by a Master. Some of our attempts to produce potion with a team of magicians failed spectacularly. In the end, we just kept it to ourselves. I don’t think I ever told Master Jackson about the trick. I produce some potion every week and draw on it when I need extra power...”
Gwen looked up at him. “I feel great,” she said. “Where...”
“I should thrash you,” Master Thomas snapped. “Do you have any idea just how close you came to death tonight? What would have happened if your powers had failed while you were high in the sky? You’d have fallen to your death. What would have happened if someone had stumbled across you while you were helpless? You’d have had your throat cut – if you were lucky. I ought to send you back to Oxford to stay out of danger until this is all over...”
“I’m sorry,” Gwen said, contritely. She meant it too. It hadn’t occurred to her that she would be putting her life in so much danger, let alone delaying Master Thomas from completing his mission. Her body felt strange; parts of her seemed to be bursting with energy, other parts felt almost dead, on the verge of collapse. It struck her that she might be safer finding a quiet place to sleep and resting, except London was held by the rebels. What would Jack do if he found her alone and helpless?
“How many times have I told you that magic is useless without discipline?” Master Thomas raged. “You need to learn to think before you act. Right now, some Charmer with a good grasp of their talent is going to be able to twist you into his servant, just because you never think about what you’re doing. If you’d been born a man, I would thrash you right here and now.”
Gwen bowed her head, a confusing mixture of emotions flowing through her. She’d risked her own life and, as the only other loyal Master, the future of the Sorcerers Corps. If he wanted to thrash her...part of her wanted to run, because the prospect was terrifying, and part of her felt as if she deserved punishment. Lady Mary had never punished her, at least not physically. Her mother’s tantrums had lost their power to affect Gwen long ago.
“Turn around,” Master Thomas ordered. Gwen obeyed, feeling oddly vulnerable. She was his student, his apprentice – and she was supposed to obey him. Her father had put her into his care. “Bend over.”
Gwen had no time to react before he slapped his cane against her bottom. There was a moment of nothing – and then the pain hit, a searing line of fire across her rear end. She yelped in pain, jumping forward and rubbing at her behind. The pain refused to fade, no matter how many mental disciplines she tried to use. It hurt, badly...what if he wanted to do it again? Or cane her bare bottom? Or...she tried not to think about it. The pain seemed to suck away all her thoughts.
Master Thomas shook his head, resignedly. “You may as well come with me,” he said, slowly. Gwen, who had been expecting another stroke, started in surprise. “I may need your help. But if you disobey me once more...”
He left the threat hanging in the air as he turned back towards the south. A moment later, he leapt into the air and flew away. Gwen followed him, rather shakily. Her magic felt wrong, somehow, as if it was catching and then falling away from her. But it wasn’t her magic, she realised slowly; she was drawing on magic Master Thomas had stored for himself. No wonder it felt odd, or so she told herself. Or maybe it was her own confusion. Master Thomas had been right. She had come close to killing herself because of her own curiosity.
She heard shouts from below and glanced down, sharply. A mob was chasing a man who was running as fast as he could, but he couldn’t outrun the angry crowd. They caught him, dragged him to the nearest streetlamp, and produced a rope. Gwen had only a moment to realise what they had in mind before they strung him up and jeered as he choked to death. There was nothing she could do to save him, leaving her wondering who he had been before he met his end. An aristocrat? A factory owner? A loan shark? There was no way to know. He might even have been someone unpopular, perhaps a Jew, no longer protected by the forces of law and order. The working class hated the Jews, just as much as they hated the Irish and the black slaves who worked on plantations in the Americas. Jack would have been smart enough to realise that such small hatreds were only used to distract them from their true enemy. How many others wouldn’t be able to see anything that wasn’t in front of their noses?
Parts of London seemed almost deserted, even the docks. They were normally busy at all times of the day, but now...only a handful of men were working with the boats docked in the Thames. The warships to the east would be blocking all travel in and out of London, at least until Jack went downriver to deal with them personally. She half-expected Master Thomas to meet up with a boat and its crew, but instead he flew onwards to Soho. It had been a poor part of the city before an epidemic had swept through the area, killing hundreds of helpless men and women. Docto
r Norwell had used it as an example of the good magic could do; magicians had discovered that Cholera was caused by tiny creatures living in water, as opposed to ‘bad air’, one of the theories that had rendered it impossible to stamp out the epidemic. Soho was still almost deserted, even with so many people desperate for a roof over their heads. It had a very bad reputation. The Rookery, she suspected, wasn’t half as fearsome as a place infected by something that killed everyone it touched.
The stench reached up towards her as Master Thomas touched the ground. She gagged, despite herself. Breathing through her mouth seemed difficult, but every breath she took through her nose made her feel queasy. It was easy to understand why so many people had believed in ‘bad air’ – the stench seemed to be almost a living thing. The ruined buildings, deserted apart from animal life, seemed to belong to another world. Jack’s words echoed in her mind and she shivered. If she’d lived in such hopelessness, she would do whatever it took to get out – even whoring, selling her body to strangers.
“Be careful where you put your feet,” Master Thomas said. “The paving here is very thin; they used to collect night soil below us. The Gong Farmers would come every so often and drain it, taking the night soil out of the cities and using it on farms. After they discovered that night soil often helped epidemics to spread, they just abandoned the cesspools under London. They should have burned this part of the city to the ground, but...they had their reasons for leaving it alone. No one in their right mind would come here.”
Gwen started as a dark shape flashed across the road. It was a dog, but not of a breed she recognised. It was larger than any dog she’d seen before, eying her with a gaze that suggested that it was very far from tame. Without a human presence, the animals in Soho had reverted to the wild; dogs and cats had gone feral, hunting down rats and weaker dogs to feed themselves. A string of spiders made her jump as Master Thomas’s light illuminated the gap between two of the smaller buildings. They’d built up the webbing over years, she realised, out of reach of dogs and cats alike. Indeed, maybe a weaker dog or cat would be caught in the webbing. A rat seemed to have been caught by the spiders down towards the paving. They were swarming over the corpse...what did spiders do to their prey? Gwen couldn’t remember. Some of the spiders were larger than her hand, scuttling over the ground with deadly intent. Gwen shivered and turned away. Master Thomas was right. This part of London should have been fed to the flames.
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