Sons of Liberty

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “No,” Gwen said. If Master Thomas and Wayne had exchanged words, and she knew it was possible, they hadn't made it into the file. “What did he say?”

  “He said I should drink myself to death,” Wayne pronounced, as if it were the punchline to a joke. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a swig. “Who am I to defy the Royal Sorcerer?”

  Gwen reached out with her magic, yanked the bottle out of his hand and smashed it against the wall. “You can drink yourself to death later,” she snapped. Wayne half-stood, magic flickering around his hand, but she held her ground. Showing weakness was never a good idea. “Right now, you are to go shave, wash and get into a clean uniform - after showing me the records room.”

  Wayne glowered at her. “And if I refuse?”

  I could make you, Gwen thought. She forced the instinct out of her mind before she could make the same mistake for the second time. I need him ...

  “You will be shipped back to England to answer for your dereliction of duty,” Gwen said, instead. “It’s been over a month since the remaining sorcerers were killed. It was your job to recruit others from the registry and put them to work. What do you imagine the Duke of India will say when he hears about it?”

  Her voice hardened. “Or I could just kill you out of hand,” she added, coldly. “We are in a state of war. No one will object if I execute you for bad conduct in the face of the enemy.”

  She felt a pang of guilt at his shocked expression, which she ruthlessly suppressed. Wayne couldn't have done much, not without a training cadre, but at least he could have tried. Save for the handful of Talkers scattered around the continent, she and Wayne were the only trained British magicians for thousands of miles. A strong man in his position could have accomplished much.

  And the Viceroy clearly didn’t realise just how bad things had become, she thought. The irony chilled her. Master Thomas had fought hard for a degree of independence for the Royal Sorcerers Corps, but it had come back to bite them hard. He could have done something if he’d had the time ...

  She shook her head as Wayne rose to his feet. “The French aren’t going to wait for much longer,” she warned. “And we don’t have much time.”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Wayne said, unsteadily. “I’ll find you the records now, if you wish.”

  And then start arranging for new servants, Gwen added, silently. She’d need to ask Irene to vet them, once the servants were lined up ... despite the risks. Another French agent might just get her as well as the other magicians. There’s far too much at stake.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “This is all we have?”

  “All the ones within easy reach, My Lady,” Wayne said. A wash and a change of clothes had done wonders for him, but he still looked like a man who’d bitten into something sour. “I left purebred Americans off the list because they’re unreliable.”

  Gwen eyed him, darkly. “Unreliable?”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Wayne said. “The generation that endured the war knew better than to raise a hand against the government. Losing a third of New York to fires that were set by the retreating rebels taught them the dangers of trusting radicals. But the current generation is less inclined to accept the status quo. We caught a pair of the most promising magicians at a meeting of radicals, only three months ago.”

  Gwen rubbed her tired eyes. “You don’t think they’d fight to defend their home?”

  “I’m sure they would fight to defend their home,” Wayne said. “I'm just concerned about who they would consider the enemy.”

  “I see,” Gwen said. She looked down at the list, again. “So we have seven magicians; three Blazers, two Movers, a Sensitive and a Changer.”

  “I’d be concerned about the Sensitive,” Wayne said. “According to the reports, he keeps losing at cards.”

  Gwen scowled. No genuine Sensitive should ever have lost at cards, not when they could read someone’s emotions as easily as a Talker. Maybe it wasn't the same kind of magic, but the end results were the same. The Sensitive had to be a fake or otherwise crippled. Either way, he was useless.

  “There may be some women,” she said. “Are there none?”

  “They have not registered, My Lady,” Wayne said. He gave her a considering look. “My Lady, the colonials are rarely kind to magicians. Even after Master Thomas visited the colonies twenty years ago, it was rare for a colonial magician to openly reveal himself. Too many of the settlements are strongly religious.”

  Gwen winced. As embarrassing as it was, there had been witch-hunts - genuine witch-hunts - in Scotland and Ireland; hell, some magical children in England had been killed, even though the Royal College would have happily taken them as foundlings. She knew just how lucky she’d been to escape such a fate, after her powers had manifested. If her parents had been a little less decent, she would have ended her days in the farms - or simply suffered an accident. No, she could understand why someone with magic might keep it to himself, despite the law. There was too great a chance of being murdered by his neighbours.

  “Then we work with what we have,” she said. She’d have to send a message to Lord Mycroft, asking for what little he could spare. “Can you recruit some servants?”

  “I can,” Wayne said. “But how can they be trusted?”

  “We can have them scanned by a Talker,” Gwen said. She didn't want to bring Irene into play too soon, but she doubted she had a choice. “Or we can look for people who don’t have a motive to betray us.”

  She scowled as she recalled the half-caste maid. The French had a huge advantage when it came to recruiting, simply because they reached men of all colours as equals. Hell, slavery had officially been banned in their colonies, although the work-peonage system wasn't really much better. All they had to do was offer the promise of freedom and they’d have hundreds of thousands willing to come to work for them.

  “We can try,” Wayne said. He paused. “There are women from England who have come to the Americas in search of husbands. I can recruit a few washerwomen and suchlike from amongst them.”

  Gwen blinked. “Husbands?”

  “The frontier is constantly expanding, My Lady,” Wayne said. “And there is a significant shortage of women.”

  “Very well,” Gwen said. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do. “The Viceroy’s Ball is tomorrow night, unfortunately. Send messages to the magicians, reminding them of their duty as registered sorcerers and inviting them to the hall. That gives us a day to get this place cleaned up, emptied of alcohol and rendered safe for habitation.”

  Wayne gave her an appalled look. “No alcohol?”

  “It’s bad for magic, as you well know,” Gwen said, primly. Besides, it was going to be hard enough to train the magicians without alcohol being involved. “And we really need to train them up as fast as possible.”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Wayne said. “I’ll send the messages now.”

  Gwen eyed his back as he shuffled out of the room. Throwing open the windows and lighting a dozen lanterns had transformed the hall, but it still needed a through clean before it was suitable, let alone impressive. She rather doubted any of the new recruits would be happy if they saw the hall in a messy state, let alone willing to fight for the country. Rising to her feet, she walked out of the door and up the stairs to the bedrooms. The doors had been pinned open, revealing that beds remained unmade and personal possessions left lying where they’d fallen. It was just something else that should have been handled before she arrived ...

  She walked into the master bedroom and sighed. Sir Young, the senior magician, looked to have gone out for an evening stroll, rather than to his death. His books were still on the desk, covered by a thin layer of dust. She picked up one of them and frowned as she read the title; Magic And Murder. She’d read it herself, months ago. The author would have been darkly amused, she thought, to know that his book had made it across the Atlantic, although it was unlikely he’d ever get any royalties.

  A dra
wing lay under the book, showing a young woman standing upright, two toddlers holding her hands. Sir Young’s wife and children, Gwen recalled; the file had stated that the wife had been too poorly to accompany her husband to his final post. Lord Mycroft would have seen to informing them of his death, Gwen was sure; she wondered, vaguely, how they’d taken it. Death in combat was one thing, but to die at the hands of a treacherous cook was quite another. There was something sordid about it.

  Poor woman, Gwen thought. Sir Young would have a few thousand in the funds, if she was any judge, but who knew if it would go straight to his wife? It all depended on the martial contract. Surely she won’t be left completely destitute?

  She made a note to add an inquiry to her message to Lord Mycroft, then headed down the corridor to the library. It was smaller than Cavendish Hall’s library, but crammed with more books. Not all of them, she noted with some amusement, were official textbooks. It looked as though the magicians had bought dozens of cheap books and added them to the collection, presumably after reading them first. Gwen picked up one of them and rolled her eyes at the title. There were times when she felt the inventor of the printing press had a great deal to answer for.

  Wayne came up the stairs as she walked out of the library, his face flushed. “I’ve sent messages to the magicians and to the women,” he said. “We should start getting answers soon enough.”

  “Very good,” Gwen said. “Right now, I want to box up everything that was left behind by the dead magicians. We’ll ship it back to their heirs, if they had heirs.”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Wayne said. “I’ll fetch boxes from the cellar.”

  Gwen watched him hurrying back down the stairs, feeling suddenly very tired and old. Back in Cavendish Hall, Doctor Norwell and the cleaning staff had handled all such matters, on the rare occasions when a resident magician had died in the line of duty. The only dead magician she’d had to deal with personally had been Master Thomas, after the Swing. She'd wanted to go through his possessions, hoping against hope that there would be some answers hidden amongst them. But there had been nothing.

  His secrets died with him, she thought. There had been five Master Magicians - seven, perhaps, if one counted an unnamed girl in Russia and the Saint of Grimsby - and Gwen was the only one still alive. If he told Jack what he knew, before Jack turned on him, Jack never had a chance to share his secrets with me.

  She shook her head as she heard Wayne muttering under his breath as he carried a handful of boxes back up the stairs. It would be better, far better, to keep a man like Wayne busy, too busy to start thinking about alcohol - or that he was taking orders from a teenage girl. She just didn't have time to handle an argument. Slapping him down would only make matters far worse, in the future. She needed him.

  And this is his only chance to redeem himself, she told herself. He won’t waste it.

  Hoping desperately that she was right, she took one of the boxes and went to work.

  ***

  In all honesty, Raechel had almost forgotten what it was like to sleep in a proper bed, let alone just relax completely. The bed was sinfully comfortable, the room was cosy enough to make her drowsy even if she hadn't already been tired and, after the bath, her body felt warm and relaxed. She hadn't even bothered to get dressed, even into a dressing gown, before climbing under the sheets and closing her eyes.

  She was awakened by a sharp tap on the door. “Raechel,” Irene called. “It’s time to get up, if you don't mind.”

  Raechel sat upright, convinced Irene was right next to her. It took her long bemused seconds to recall that they were in New York - and that Irene was on the other side of the door. Not that it mattered, she reminded herself as she slapped her mental shields into place. Irene could probably read her thoughts from the other side of the wooden door.

  “I’m awake,” she said, as she climbed out of bed. “Can I have a moment to get dressed?”

  “Come downstairs when you’re ready,” Irene ordered. “We’re going to be going out later, so make sure you have your trousers and shirt handy.”

  Raechel groaned - that meant male guise, she was sure - but pulled a robe over her head before opening the door and heading down the stairs. A smell rose up to greet her as she reached the bottom and peered into the kitchen. Irene was standing behind the stove, stirring something in a large pot. It smelt of meat, potatoes and carrots.

  “Raechel,” Irene said, without looking round. “Do you know how to cook?”

  “No,” Raechel said. “Do I need to know?”

  “It can be a very useful skill,” Irene said, dryly. She jabbed a finger at a small wooden table, barely large enough for two eaters. Raechel took the hint and sat down. “Girls of your social class are rarely taught anything practical, beyond simpering at men and ordering the maids around.”

  “They’re useful skills,” Raechel protested, without heat. She was growing used to Irene’s snide remarks, if only because she had to admit the older woman was right. “You spent far too long teaching me how to simper yourself.”

  “They leave you dependent on others,” Irene pointed out. She didn't bother to rise to the bait, merely ladled a little stew into a bowl and placed it in front of Raechel. “Through extreme carelessness, I have failed - alas, me - to hire staff for our lodgings. A truly terrible oversight.”

  Raechel frowned. Hadn't there been a maid in the house earlier? She must work for Lady Sofia, the poor girl. “Won’t that look a little odd?”

  “It will look a lot odd,” Irene said. “I’ll be hiring a handful of servants tomorrow morning, of course, but I thought we could fend for ourselves tonight. Servants have eyes and ears, as you well know, and they may not have our best interests in mind.”

  “Joy,” Raechel said. She took the spoon Irene held out to her and tasted the stew. It was surprisingly nice, although a little bland. “Can’t we cope without them?”

  “Not without causing too many eyebrows to rise,” Irene said. “It’s lucky that no one, save for Lady Sofia, has visited us yet.”

  She sat down, facing Raechel. “What were your first impressions of Lady Sofia?”

  Raechel scowled. “A bore.”

  Irene nodded. “Do you feel that’s accurate?”

  “She was boring,” Raechel said. The mere memory of the oversweet cakes and pastries made her teeth hurt. “But she did know a lot of the good gossip.”

  “She knew everything,” Irene said. “Or she certainly believed she did.”

  “She was telling the truth?” Raechel asked. “Or what she thought was the truth?”

  “There’s no difference, unfortunately, when mind-reading is concerned,” Irene said. “Lady Sofia never actually lied to us, not intentionally. How much of what she said is actually true ... well, we’ll find that out when we attend the ball, tomorrow. Lady Sofia was good enough to drop off our invitations before she left.”

  “Finally,” Raechel muttered.

  Irene gave her a sharp look. “You find that that appalling?”

  “She’s a ruder version of my aunt,” Raechel said, bluntly. There was no point in trying to lie to Irene. “If she wasn't wealthy and well-connected she wouldn’t be welcome anywhere.”

  “She's the way she is because she’s scared she’ll lose everything,” Irene said. There was no condemnation in her voice, merely quiet understanding. “Her husband is very much a hen-pecked man, yet he uprooted her from London and brought her to America when his job moved overseas. She had to fight her way into a whole new social scene from scratch. If she goes back to London, she fears everyone will have forgotten her.”

  “Not a chance,” Raechel muttered.

  “Perhaps not,” Irene said. She cocked her head. “But just because someone is annoying doesn't mean you should hate them.”

  Raechel scowled, resentfully. Her mother had been a distant presence in her life, but her aunt had spent years trying to control her, to shape her into a compliant little girl who wo
uld marry well and make the family proud. Lady Sofia was far too much like her aunt for Raechel ever to like her. The overbearing friendliness could easily turn to disdain in a heartbeat, shoving her unfortunate victim right out of polite society ...

  “Your shields are leaking,” Irene warned her. “Trying to understand someone is often more productive than mindless hatred.”

  Raechel felt her temper snap. “I would be more understanding,” she said, “if people like her were more understanding to people like me.”

  Her aunt would have exploded at her tone. Irene merely looked amused.

  “She is trying to do you a favour, by her lights,” Irene said. “And that isn't something to take lightly.”

  She rose. “Get your street clothes on,” she added. “We’re going for a walk.”

  Raechel scowled at her back as Irene led the way up the stairs, not bothering to try to hide her resentment. Irene must have picked up on her feelings, but said nothing as she walked into her bedroom and closed the door. Male guise gave her a sense of freedom, she’d admitted once, that Raechel didn't share. But Irene was small enough, she knew, to pass for a man easily, unless someone forced her to undress.