Sons of Liberty

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “Of course,” Bruce agreed. “Please let me know what your parents say.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “I never realised the city smelled so bad,” Raechel admitted, as the barge approached the docks. “It ... stinks.”

  Adam gave her a funny little smile. “That’s the smell of humanity,” he said. “You were in the countryside for weeks, breathing clean air and living in a camp where strict laws of sanitation were enforced. Here ... there’s very little sanitation at all.”

  Raechel swallowed hard, trying to breathe through her mouth. The docks were filthy, covered in everything from discarded pieces of fish to guano. Adam had told her that this particular section of the docks was largely abandoned, worked only by the poorest of dockyard crews, and it looked as though he was right. She could see a handful of drunks leaning against the nearby warehouse, clutching bottles in their fists as they stared into nothingness, their faces prematurely aged by life. Irene had said that playing a drunk could be a very useful disguise, but it wasn't something she was looking forward to.

  She scowled as the barge was hastily tied to the quay. The outfit she wore was quite bad enough, a loose shirt and a baggy pair of pants that were stained with something that smelled thoroughly unpleasant. She’d need a bath, she told herself, when they finally reached their destination, although she had the feeling she wasn't going to get one. Washing in the camp had been difficult enough, despite Joan’s willingness to scrub anyone down who didn't pay enough attention to their personal hygiene, but in the city ...? She would be surprised if this part of New York had hot and cold running water.

  “This way,” Adam said, as he scrambled up the ladder. “Keep your eyes lowered as you follow me.”

  I look like a whore, Raechel thought. Does he want me to act like one too?

  She pushed the thought aside as she followed him up the ladder, looking around with interest as she reached the top. The drunkards barely moved, as if they were so drunk they no longer cared what was happening near them. On impulse, she glanced into the murky waters and saw a body drifting just below the surface. Her gorge rose as she remembered the undead stalking the streets of Moscow; she swallowed hard, forcing herself to look away. The poor bastard had died and no one cared enough to fish his body out of the water, let alone take it to be burned.

  The lower part of New York didn't get any more attractive as they moved through poverty-stricken streets. There was hardly anyone in view, save for a handful of listless teenagers and old men. She wondered, darkly, why the teenagers didn't join the army, then decided it wasn't likely they’d want to risk their lives for the government. Some of them glanced at the small party, clearly trying to decide if it was worth attempting a robbery, then flinched back as they saw Ivan and his men. Raechel wasn't sure if she should be relieved or fearful that even young thugs had the wit to be scared of Ivan. Every time she saw the man, she was convinced he saw her as nothing more than a thing.

  They stopped outside a tenement block in a slightly more refined area and waited while Adam dug a key out of his pocket. Inside, it was dark and cold; they tramped up two flights of stairs and into a small apartment. A young woman - it took Raechel a moment to recognise Jane - was sitting in front of a fire, cooking a pot of strew. She hastily slammed her mental defences into place as Jane turned to face them.

  “You’re early,” she said. She sounded surprised. “The strew is edible, but the bread isn't ready yet.”

  “We picked up speed on the last part of the voyage,” Adam grunted, as he locked and bolted the door. Ivan and his men moved past him and into a smaller room, closing the door behind them. “Do you have a report?”

  “My sources in the palace confirm that” - she glanced at Raechel - “our mutual friend and his partner have returned,” Jane said. “The Viceroy is planning to host a ball tonight where he will announce the formation of an American Parliament, after he finishes smoothing ruffled feathers. I didn't dare try to probe too closely, but it all looks genuine.”

  “I see,” Adam said. He sounded displeased. “And is our ... friend ... compromised?”

  “I didn't dare probe,” Jane said. “But their body language suggests that they have become distinctly affectionate.”

  Raechel looked from one to the other. “Who?”

  “Be quiet,” Adam ordered. “Are you sure?”

  “They respond to one another differently,” Jane said. “I don't think they realised just how easily it can be seen, by someone who knows to look.”

  “So he’s definitely compromised,” Adam mused. “What did his father have to say?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know,” Jane said. “But I wasn't present for the conversion and nor were any of my sources.”

  “Understood,” Adam said. “What time is the ball due to begin?”

  “Six o’clock,” Jane said. “But everyone is expected to be there by seven. That’s when the Viceroy is planning to make his speech.”

  Raechel nodded to herself. There was normally a formal opening time for a ball, but it was generally understood that any important speeches would be later, just to ensure that half the ton could be fashionably late without missing anything. They’d all try to be at the ball for half past six, perhaps, giving them a chance to share a couple of dances before the Viceroy called for silence. And then, afterwards, there would be dinner, more dancing and a whole host of private meetings.

  “Very well,” Adam said.

  He cleared his throat. “Raechel, take the stew to Ivan,” he ordered. “Jane, I need to have a chat with you.”

  Raechel hesitated, then picked up the stew pot - Jane held out a tray - and carried it into the next room. Ivan and his men were inspecting a number of weapons, ranging from tiny pistols - Irene had called them assassin’s pistols - to hunting rifles. She almost dropped the stew as she realised, to her horror, just what Adam had in mind. He’d claimed they were going to New York to support the Sons, but in reality he was planning to assassinate the Viceroy!

  She put the stew down on the table, then hurried back into the first room. Adam was standing next to Jane, muttering in her ear. She looked at Raechel ... and Raechel knew, with a sickening certainty, that Jane knew that she was a spy. And if Jane knew ... she glanced at the door, only to recall that it was both locked and bolted. She was trapped.

  “Sit down,” Adam ordered. “Now.”

  There was power in his voice, too much power. Raechel’s legs gave out and she dropped to the floor, staring at him in horror. A Charmer ... a very powerful Charmer. She remembered just how much she’d told him, over the last few days, about her life in Britain and her observations in America. Had he been Charming her all the while, subtly pushing her to answer honestly? She felt sick, again. What else had he done to her?

  “You’re planning to assassinate the Viceroy,” she said. Her mouth felt odd, as if she couldn't quite shape the words properly. “You want to destroy the agreement ...”

  Jane frowned. “What agreement?”

  Understanding clicked. “You’re working for the French,” Raechel charged. “Aren't you?”

  “We have an agreement with the French,” Adam said. He sounded surprised by her deduction. “Now ...”

  Raechel cut him off before he could Charm her again. “No, you’re working for the French,” she said, dropping her shields just enough to let Jane see the truth in her mind. “You don’t want the Crown and the Sons of Liberty to come to terms, you want them at war. And now you’re planning to assassinate the Viceroy, just to make sure the Sons get the blame!”

  “Adam,” Jane said. She sounded worried. “Is this true?”

  Adam turned and grabbed Jane’s neck. Raechel could only watch in horror as he squeezed hard, slowly choking Jane’s life out of her. Jane struggled, but Adam was far too strong. Raechel tried to move, desperate to do something, but Adam’s commands held her in place, as firmly as if she’d been tied to a chair. Jane gasped, once, then her body
fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  “A waste,” Adam observed, idly. He kicked Jane’s body, then looked at Raechel. “I would have had to dispose of her eventually, but I might have had a use for her beforehand.”

  Raechel stared at Jane’s body, not trusting herself to speak. Jane ... had been genuine, she thought, even though it was clear she'd been caught out at some point. Perhaps Adam had invited her into his office to keep an eye on her, making sure she wouldn't have the time to influence the other Sons. Jane ... had risked herself to get Raechel away from an unwanted marriage ... unless her cover had been blown before then. She knew she’d never know the truth.

  “She was on your side,” Raechel said, numbly. Casual violence had never been part of her life, even during the trip to Russia. To see someone killed so casually ... she had to swallow again, just to keep herself from throwing up. “She was on your side and you killed her.”

  “She was a Son,” Adam said, dryly. “As you deduced, my loyalties lie elsewhere.”

  “You’re French,” Raechel said. “You do a remarkable job of pretending to be American.”

  Adam gave her a pitying look. “Do you really think it’s that hard?”

  He shrugged. “Most of my cover is real, of course,” he added. “That does help.”

  His voice hardened. “And a simple plan to ensure a civil war within British North America goes awry because a Son falls in love,” he added. He smirked, although Raechel wasn't sure she got the joke. “The idiot ordered our forces to assist the redcoats, rather than attack their rear. Can you imagine such treachery?”

  “Is it actually treachery,” Raechel asked, “if one gets what one wants out of it?”

  “Not for long,” Adam said. He shrugged, a smile ghosting across his face. “I admit I didn't expect London to cave so quickly. The invasion of England must have concentrated a few minds. But it won’t matter. By tonight, the Viceroy will be dead and the civil war will be underway. There will be no peace.”

  “Because the Sons will get the blame,” Raechel said.

  “Of course,” Adam agreed. “You will help us, of course.”

  His smile grew wider. “It will be a great story,” he added. “The tragic heroine, escaping the Sons of Liberty, too late to save Viceroy Rochester from the assassin’s bullet or blade. You will tell them how the Sons plan other uprisings, you will show them where to find the camps, sparking off a civil war in spite of yourself.”

  “I won’t,” Raechel said.

  “Of course you will,” Adam said. His voice was very casual. “You’re a strong-minded woman, Lady Raechel, but you’re only a woman and I am a skilled Charmer. I will Charm you to the point where you won’t know truth from lies, where you will say my lies with utter conviction because you will believe every word. By the time the Charm wears off, and it will, it will be far too late to prevent the civil war. The redcoats will go after the Sons and the Sons will fight back and the true cause of the fighting will no longer matter.”

  “And so France will win the war,” Raechel said. “It is a dishonourable way to win.”

  “Honour is a lie,” Adam said, flatly. “The only true honour lies in victory.”

  Raechel glanced at the door, again, but there was no way out. If she tried to fight ... he was stronger than her, meaner than her and he might not even need to keep her alive. She could see his logic - her words would help to condemn the Sons - but after the assassination, the civil war might start anyway. Her only hope was to find a way to leave the room, after the assassins were gone ...

  A hundred possible words ran through her head, but she knew they would be futile. She could have talked sense into Jane, she thought, yet Adam wouldn't be swayed by the voice of reason. He was French, not American; he’d set out to start the civil war and he’d come alarmingly close to success. The original plan had failed, but his second plan might work out better than he’d dared to dream. After the Battle of Amherst, both sides would be convinced that the other had betrayed them.

  “I hate you,” she said, finally.

  Adam laughed. “Is that all you have to say?”

  “Yes,” Raechel said. “I hate you.”

  “I don’t care,” Adam said. “You’re nothing more than a tool. You never were anything more than a tool. Your parents - and your guardians - were ready to sell you to the highest bidder, to make you the key to greater social status for themselves. British Intelligence used you as a tool to infiltrate the Sons, carelessly unaware that your cover was blown from the start. And now you’re my tool, to be bent and reshaped into the form I desire.”

  Raechel looked down at the wooden floor, fighting to hold back tears. He had a point, she had to admit, despite herself. She knew her parents had loved her, but they had seen a girl-child as the key to making new connections for themselves, rather than carrying on the family name. Her aunt, too, had been more interested in her reputation than her happiness. But Gwen and Irene hadn't seen a tool. They’d been interested in her personally ...

  “Go to the devil,” she managed.

  “I’m sure I will,” Adam said. Her entire body twitched as power flowed into his voice. “You cannot leave the apartment. You can use the facilities, if you wish, but you cannot leave the apartment.”

  Raechel felt her head spinning. She tried to fight the commands as they sunk into her mind, but she knew it was impossible. He had her under control; he could make her do anything, anything at all. And when he came back, he’d twist her into his agent, spreading his lies and starting the war ...

  “Stand up,” Adam said. He smirked as she obeyed. “Stand against the wall and wait until we are gone.”

  Her body jerked, then did as it was told. Raechel scowled at him as she marched over to the wall, trying desperately to fight the commands. But it was impossible. She managed to turn around - there was a loophole in his commands - yet she couldn't leave the wall. Ivan entered, followed by his men. They were all carrying weapons, their eyes cold. Raechel knew, with absolute certainty, that they knew what they were going to do ...

  ... And they didn't care.

  “Have fun when we’re gone,” Adam said, cheerfully. She had never hated anyone quite so much, in her entire life, as she hated him at that moment. “We’ll see you when we get back.”

  He led the way out of the apartment, closing the door behind him. The compulsion holding her in place vanished as soon as the door closed; she staggered to the floor, dry-retching violently. Somehow, she managed to fight her way back to her feet and stumble over to the door, but no matter what she did, she couldn't step through the threshold. There was no way to leave the apartment. She glanced out of the windows, hoping there was a way to scramble down, but there was nothing. Even if her commands allowed her to climb out, getting down to the road safely would be impossible.

  She refused to give up. Adam had promised her a fate worse than death - a fate worse than anything she might have considered a fate worse than death - and she refused to stay where she was, a lamb to the slaughter. She searched the rest of the apartment in a fit of desperation, but found nothing beyond a handful of supplies and a toilet that stank almost as badly as the docks. Revolted - she glanced at Jane, wondering how the girl had put up with the smell - she staggered back to the door. Nothing she did - not even trying to fall over the threshold - worked. She was trapped.

  There has to be a way out, she told herself, as she peered into the darkened hallway. But what?

  Gritting her teeth, she opened her mouth and screamed, as loudly as she could. The entire block couldn't belong to the Sons, could it? It was probably rented - one of the more common complaints among the Sons concerned New York landlords - and the other tenants might not be sons. She heard a door opening above her, but she kept screaming until a young man - no older than herself - came down the stairs. He looked unpleasant, but he would have to do.

  “Help me,” she called, pitching her voice higher. Irene had told her it ma
de men want to help. “Please!”

  He caught her arm and pulled her over the threshold. The commands in her mind snapped, completely, as soon as she was out. She was free.

  “What’s the matter?” He asked, holding her tightly. “Why ...?”

  Raechel shook herself free, then ran down the stairs. She didn't hear him following her, but it wasn't a relief. If he looked into the apartment, he’d see Jane’s body ... God alone knew what he’d do then. Somehow, she had the feeling that the locals weren't the sort of people to report a dead body, or do more with it than drop it into the street ...

  But at least she was free, she told herself, as she reached the bottom. And she had to warn the Viceroy of what was coming his way.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “Well,” Irene said. “You’ve had quite an interesting time, haven't you?”

  Gwen nodded as she checked her appearance in the mirror. The green ballroom gown she’d borrowed from Lady Sofia hadn't fitted well at first, but the seamstress had gone to work and fitted it neatly to Gwen’s taller form. Bruce was going to be there, after all; she wanted to look good for him, even though their engagement hadn't been officially announced. It was a new feeling for her, but she had to admit she rather liked it.