“Very good,” Adam said. Raechel glanced at him, but there didn't seem to be any mockery in his tone. “You’ll be amazed at how few people here can read.”
He passed her a pen and a sheet of paper. “Write down the following,” he said. Raechel hastily dipped the pen in ink, then bent over the desk. “Franklyn is to meet George at Freedom Five. No further action is to be taken.”
Raechel scribbled it down, word by word. She’d been taught to write in cursive, but she had a feeling it would be better, here, to write as simply as possible. Adam took the paper as soon as she had finished, reading it carefully. She wondered, absently, just who had taught him to read and write. There couldn't be that many differences between British and American writing, could there?
“Anyone can read that,” he said, finally. “Very good.”
“Oh,” Raechel said. “How many people can read?”
Adam shrugged. “It isn't seen as a desirable skill in many places,” he said. His lips curved into a smile. “It might give people ideas.”
Raechel frowned. “And you don’t try to teach them?”
“We do,” Adam said. “But it takes time.”
It made sense, Raechel supposed. She’d been taught to read by her tutors - she assumed Gwen had been homeschooled too - but she’d never heard of a maid learning to read. Irene had warned her that certain classes rarely had the chance to learn. Even a merchant’s daughter might not learn more than basic arithmetic.
He smiled. “I need someone to assist me,” he added. “Interested?”
Raechel blinked. “You want me?”
“We can't use you as a soldier,” Adam pointed out. “And you do have skills that will be wasted, if you spend your time cooking and cleaning. You would make a very useful assistant.”
And, Raechel asked herself, what else do you want from me?
It was a tempting offer, almost too good to be true. And that bothered her. Adam’s logic was sound, too sound. He needed an assistant who could read and write ... and she’d see everything crossing his desk. And yet, why her? She was new to the Sons of Liberty ...
But she knew she couldn't let the offer pass. “I would be honoured,” she said. If he wanted her personally, she’d just have to endure. “But what do you actually do?”
Adam gave her a toothy smile. “Someone has to organise everything,” he said. “And someone has to make sure we have something to fight with, when all hell breaks loose.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Gwen sat on the roof of City Hall, staring into the distance, as the sun slowly edged above the horizon, casting a shimmering light over Amherst. The city was quiet, but she knew it wouldn't remain that way for long. Jackson had imposed a curfew, warning that anyone caught on the streets after sunset would be arrested, yet it hadn't been enough to stop people from sneaking about. There just weren't enough redcoats - and militia - to keep the curfew in place, not when panic was bubbling below the city’s surface. The entire city was on edge. It wouldn't be long, she was sure, before there was an explosion.
Those damned rumours, she thought. If I ever get my hands on the person spreading them ...
She shook her head, knowing it would be pointless. There had been witnesses, of course, to her brief clash with the rogue magician. By now, everyone in Amherst believed that she’d been brutally thrashed to within an inch of her life by the rogue. They'd seen her patrolling with the other sorcerers, or flying over the city, yet they still believed she’d been beaten. Far too many of them wanted to believe it. And the news they were cut off from the rest of America hadn't gone down well. The French might not need to storm the city to destroy it.
A plume of smoke rose to the west, marking yet another farmstead that had been destroyed by French horsemen or revolting slaves. Gwen sighed. The raids were becoming more frequent as the French army neared, even though it was still several days away. She hoped the farmers had survived - and, despite herself, that any survivors would head north, rather than trying to make it to Amherst. The city was bursting at the seams, despite the best efforts of the redcoats. Food supplies were already running low.
She rose to her feet, shaking her head. She’d spent four days searching for the rogue, either patrolling with the other sorcerers or wandering the streets alone, but she’d found nothing, save for more rumours. She liked to think that the rogue was as nervous about facing her as she was about facing him, yet she suspected the rogue was concentrating, instead, on making matters worse. A skilled magician would have no problems contaminating the water supplies, setting fire to food warehouses and a hundred other little tricks that would be devastatingly effective. She would sooner face him now, knowing she might lose, than leave him running around on his own ...
... But he was nowhere to be found.
Gwen turned as she heard the hatch opening, behind her. Lieutenant Jansen stuck his head out, looking around until he saw her. He was a colonial officer, rather than a redcoat, but he’d managed to impress Colonel Jackson with his competence. Given the general run of things, Gwen had a suspicion that that proved he was actually a Son of Liberty. But the Sons had been quiet since their magician had been uncovered, as if they were biding their time and waiting for the French. It wasn't as if they needed to do anything until the French arrived.
“My Lady,” Jansen said. “Colonel Jackson requests your presence.”
“Very well,” Gwen said. Jackson hadn’t spoken to her since ordering her to leave the sorcerers with Wayne and search for the rogue. What did he want now? “I’m coming.”
She dropped down the hatch behind him, relying on magic to land safely. Jansen looked impressed - he wasn't one of the officers who either viewed her as a weak and feeble woman or made the sign of the cross whenever they thought she wasn't looking - and led the way down to Jackson’s office. City Hall had changed, since they’d first arrived; it bustled with life as Jackson rebuilt the civil service that had run the city. But everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before the French arrived. God alone knew what would happen on that day.
“Colonel,” she said, as she stepped into the office. A grim-faced man - Lieutenant Roscoe - was standing in front of the Colonel’s desk. Jackson himself looked tired and worn. “You sent for me?”
“We just got a rider in from the east,” Jackson said. “The French sent a raiding party to the Ingalls Homestead, one of the smaller settlements in the area. There’s a good prospect of being able to catch the bastards if we act now.”
Gwen nodded. The French horsemen wouldn't stand a chance if they ran into repeaters - she shuddered at the memory of what had happened to the Hussars - but as long as they did their best to avoid contact with the redcoats they could wreck havoc at will. Their horses gave them a mobility unmatched by the redcoats and, as long as they looted for supplies, they could keep going indefinitely. Each pinprick was minimal, but collectively they added up to a major disaster.
“There may be a magician - a Blazer - with them,” Jackson added. “Lady Gwen, I want you to go with our horsemen. If you can catch that magician ...”
“I understand,” Gwen said. The rogue ...? It was possible, but unlikely. The Sons of Liberty didn't really gain from burning out American homesteads, certainly not if they wanted allies instead of new enemies. And if the French ran into British horsemen, her presence would certainly tip the balance against them. “I’ll just get my riding clothes and then I’ll join you.”
“Good luck,” Jackson said. “We need a victory, Lady Gwen. We need one very badly.”
Gwen nodded as she hurried down to her rooms. Her clothes felt grimy against her skin, but there was no time to wash. Instead, she tore off her shirt and trousers, replacing them with her riding outfit. Her mother would have had a fit if she’d seen Gwen in such clothes - they were tight in a number of places - but there was no choice. She knew how to ride, like most aristocrats, yet she knew the Hussars rode faster. Keeping up with them would be difficult.<
br />
I should fly, she told herself. But that would just drain me before the battle.
Jackson was right, she decided, as she met up with Lieutenant Roscoe and his hand-picked riders. The French would have problems evading British horsemen, allowing her a chance to get close to them. A horse was already waiting for her, its reins held by a young boy who eyed her with worshipping eyes. Gwen would have been very surprised if he was older than ten, although that meant nothing. Outside the aristocracy, children were put to work almost as soon as they could walk.
The horse neighed uncomfortably as she scrambled into the saddle, but didn't try to throw her off. Horses had never liked her, Gwen recalled; her first instructor had told her that horses sometimes responded badly to magic. It had taken her longer - far longer - than David to get used to controlling the beasts and, even now, she was reluctant to ride on a horse’s back. But there was no choice. She braced herself as Lieutenant Roscoe barked orders to his men, then spurred the horse into following him as he led the way down the road, through the gates and out into the countryside.
She might have enjoyed the ride, if she hadn't kept one wary eye on the horse at all times. He was a tempestuous beast, like many military horses, perfectly capable of kicking an infantryman in the face if he got too close. The countryside shifted with bewildering rapidity; tiny farmsteads, patches of forest, blue rivers flowing ever-east towards the sea, then more farmsteads. She couldn't help noticing that far too many of the farmsteads were burned-out ruins, a handful of bodies lying where they’d fallen. No one had had time to return and give the corpses a proper burial.
The horse slowed with the remainder of the pack as they cantered down a dusty road, towards yet another plume of smoke billowing up towards the sky. Gwen tensed, readying her magic to strike down her foes, despite the ripple of complaint from the horse. It definitely didn't like magic. She wondered idly how a beast could sense magic, then dismissed the thought. There were plenty of humans who could sense magic, but do little else with it. She’d often wondered if it was a sign of an as-yet undiscovered talent.
She shuddered as the homestead finally came into view. A handful of buildings, burning brightly; a dozen bodies, lying on the ground. She had to fight to keep her gorge from rising as she saw a young girl, her throat mercifully cut. They’d raped her before they’d killed her, she realised, along with her sister and her mother. The menfolk had been killed too, their bodies torn apart as if they’d been thrown to wild animals. Gwen hoped, inwardly, that they’d died before they’d seen what had happened to the women. If they met up again in the afterlife, they wouldn't know ...
It wasn't their fault, she told herself. But she knew it wouldn't matter. Far too many people believed it was impossible to rape a virtuous woman. The simple fact that most men were stronger than women, that most women were taught to be subservient if not submissive, never seemed to occur to them. A woman who admitted to being raped could expect to pay a price for it. And it really wasn't her fault.
“Magic,” Lieutenant Roscoe said, quietly. “They burned the homestead very quickly.”
Gwen nodded in confirmation, silently relieved to have an excuse to look away from the bodies. The homestead had been built from wood, but it wouldn't have burned that quickly without magic. There was definitely a Blazer with the party, unless the French had a Master Magician of their own. These days, she wouldn't have ruled out the possibility. She’d grown far too used to being unique.
There was the Saint of Grimsby, she reminded herself. No one ever quite got to the bottom of her magic.
“There’s no one here, Lieutenant,” one of the troopers called. He’d dismounted and inspected the half-destroyed buildings. “They’re all dead.”
Gwen winced, inwardly. A family had set up a home, miles from Amherst, in the hopes of finding a new life for themselves. And instead, they’d found death, a particularly horrific death. They hadn't deserved to die, she told herself. Judging from the angry comments the troopers were exchanging as they hunted for the French tracks, they evidently agreed.
“We should be able to run them down,” Lieutenant Roscoe told her. “Coming?”
“Yes,” Gwen said. Her magic pulsed under her skin, demanding escape. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”
She hunkered down in the saddle as the horsemen rode in pursuit. The French couldn't have been on the move for long, Gwen told herself; they’d needed time to ... to ... kill the men and violate the women, while destroying the remains of their life. She hadn't seen any chickens or pigs, she recalled; no doubt the French had snatched them up, intending to turn the beasts into dinner. A skilled hunter would have no trouble finding enough to eat in the countryside, she knew, but the French wouldn't want to waste time. And besides, it denied the British and Americans access to fresh eggs.
“Tally ho,” Lieutenant Roscoe shouted, as the French came into view. Seven horsemen, carrying weapons ... Gwen reached out with her senses, but she couldn't identify the magician at such a distance. “No quarter!”
Gwen half-expected the French to keep running, but instead they wheeled around and charged right at the British horsemen. For a long moment, her mind refused to accept what she was seeing. Did the French think they were going to tourney? It wasn't a game, when a horseman could be unseated one moment and rise to shake his enemy’s hand the second. No one, but an idiot would try to joust against rifle-armed men. She could see Lieutenant Roscoe and his men already priming their weapons. If the French wanted to joust, they'd accept the challenge ...
She sensed the surge of magic an instant too late. A wave of force slammed into the horsemen, sending them flying in all directions. Gwen felt herself tossed into the air, her magic barely strong enough to keep her from landing badly. Lieutenant Roscoe’s body flew past her, his head missing. The French had shattered the horsemen with a single blow ... she shook off her shock - there would be time for panic later - and landed as best as she could, ducking down in the hopes of avoiding notice. There wasn't just a Blazer with the French, there was a Mover. Perhaps more than one.
A howl split the air. She looked up, just in time to see a wolf-like monster hurl itself towards her, blood dripping from its jaws. It’s disturbingly-human eyes fixed on her, glowing with a mixture of bloodlust and carnal desire. A werewolf ... an insane werewolf. Gwen had heard stories of werewolves who couldn't control themselves, who became fell beasts with the intelligence of men. Lord Mycroft’s brother had killed one in Dartmoor ...
She threw up a shield as the beast neared, knocking it back. The werewolf would have been the rapist, she was sure. An insane werewolf would have all the lusts of men without any of the restraints. His comrades would have problems keeping him under control, too. He’d need to be knocked down regularly, convinced time and time again that his superiors were unassailable. Gwen wouldn't have risked using an insane werewolf as a weapon unless she had no other choice - and even then, she would have planned his murder as soon as the job was done. Giving a werewolf a taste for human flesh could be disastrous.
The beast roared and lunged again. Gwen braced herself, then blasted him with fire. The werewolf staggered backwards, howling in pain, but it was far too late. His fur caught fire, followed by his flesh and blood. She stumbled back as the beast went up in flames, his final howl splitting the air. And then it was dead ...
A wave of magic washed towards her. She threw herself into the air, hastily surveying her enemies. Two of them were definitely Movers - she could sense the magic boiling around them - while a third was a Blazer, judging by the fireball he’d hurled after her. The other three were standing back, doing nothing. Were they magicians? Or were their talents useless on the field of battle? One of them might be a Talker ...
She pushed the thought aside as the Movers slapped at her, their joint blow stronger than any she could generate herself. The punch knocked her over and over - she reached out with her own magic, caught hold of the Blazer and threw him into the air, w
ondering if any of his comrades would try to rescue him. Somewhat to her surprise, they did; one of them caught the Blazer before he could fall, while the other drove a needle of power into her shield, threatening to punch right through. Gwen cursed and allowed herself to fall to the ground, gathering her power around her as she picked up a rock. Infusing it with power, she hurled it back towards the Movers. They jumped apart, hastily, as the rock exploded with staggering violence.
They know how to work together, she thought. She’d tested herself against Merlin more than once, but Sir James and his men had been holding back. So had she. None of them had really wanted to kill anyone. Jack must have trained them ...
Another punch slammed into her shield from above, as if she was being slapped down by a giant hand. Gwen hastily reshaped her shield, but she knew it was just a matter of time before one Mover held her in place while the other formed a needle and tore her shield to shreds. Bracing herself, she hastily Changed the ground below her feet to dust and threw it at them, moving out from under her own protections as soon as there was enough room to move. They wouldn't expect her to do that, would they? It would be suicide if they saw what she was doing before it was too late ...
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