The grass was smouldering, she realised as she dropped to the ground in front of the senior magicians, but the flames were unlikely to spread. Instead, without her magic or much left to burn, the flames were already dying down, leaving nothing more than a pile of charred rubble. All of the evidence of the farm’s existence had been destroyed.
“The fire brigade will be on their way,” Sir James said. There was a round of nervous chuckles from some of the magicians, although others were watching Gwen coldly, perhaps regretting the end of an era. “What do you want to tell them?”
Gwen shrugged. Both the fire brigade and the Bow Street Runners had been given specific instructions to ignore the farms, leaving the guards stationed there to handle any problems. She honestly had no idea if that had changed, but it hardly mattered. Right now, a word from Sir James would suffice to distract interested policemen – and the fire was already dying out.
“You can tell them that we corrected a mistake,” Gwen said, finally. It was true enough; besides, the Royal Sorcerers Corps took the lead in anything involving magic. “And you can leave it at that.”
She put a little Charm into her voice, just enough to ensure that they would all hear her. “I want you all to understand that things have changed,” she said, as calmly as she could. “We no longer need the farms and I will not tolerate their existence. Nor will the Government.”
Lord Brockton looked as though he were about to argue, but thought better of it.
“The other farms will be destroyed in turn,” Gwen continued. Perhaps she wouldn’t do it herself. There were some young Blazers who were doing well in their schooling and deserved a reward. Wanton destruction would probably suit them just fine. “Once they are gone, that part of our history will be buried.”
She smiled at them, somehow. Master Thomas had kept himself going for hours, but she felt tired and worn now that she no longer needed to maintain the bubble. But she didn’t dare show weakness in front of them, not when too many of them already saw her as a weak and frail female.
“We will go back to Cavendish Hall, where you can all join me for lunch,” she concluded. She would have preferred to eat alone, but protocol was protocol. Besides, some of them would be better off under her eye for a while. “And then we will hold the next meeting of the Royal Committee.”
She watched them go, then turned back to stare at the blackened ruins. A final wisp of smoke rose up from the debris, then faded away into nothingness. She was tempted to try to open her mind again, to see if all the impressions had been burned away, but she didn’t quite dare. Doctor Norwell, when he’d been her tutor, had once speculated that all humans were Sensitive, some were just more sensitive than others. Maybe all the stories about ghosts were really nothing more than undiscovered Sensitives walking into an area that had been magically tainted by bad events.
“I don’t think they were convinced,” Lucy said.
Gwen nodded, without turning round. Lucy had been Jack’s mistress and Gwen honestly wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She’d kissed Jack... what would have happened if he’d survived the Swing? But then, Lucy had told her that Jack had been partly intent on his own self-destruction, if it meant the destruction of the society that had shaped him. Gwen, remembering his behaviour, could hardly disagree.
“I know,” she said, quietly.
They respected her power, but they didn’t take her seriously. How could they?
Someone – she couldn’t remember who – had once told her that legitimacy consisted of being there long enough so that no one could remember anyone else. Maybe she’d just have to be patient. Sooner or later, most of Master Thomas’s appointees would be gone.
But it seemed a very long time to have to wait.
Chapter Five
Gwen allowed herself a smile as she stepped into the Royal Committee’s chamber. The designers had placed it right at the top of Cavendish Hall, allowing light to shine through the skylight and illuminate a long wooden table, where the members of the committee sat. A smaller table held two bottles of wine and several glasses, while a bookshelf held copies of the Corps’ accounts. The walls held several portraits; a regal portrait of King George IV, a joint image of the first three Master Magicians and a large painting of Queen Elizabeth, a droll reminder that a woman had once done an extremely good job of ruling the entire country. At the far end of the room, the original Battle of Philadelphia hung on one wall, showing the surrender of George Washington and his army of rebels to the British Redcoats.
The members of the committee rose to their feet as she entered the chamber. Gwen nodded politely to them, took her seat at the end of the table and motioned for them to sit down. She couldn’t help noticing that several of them had taken wine from the table, but others had chosen to try to keep a clear head. That was good, she supposed. Magic and alcohol didn’t mix very well. Besides, if she had taken a glass for herself, people would have commented.
“The meeting is now in session,” she said, primly. They didn’t like having a chairwoman, any more than Gwen liked attending the meetings in the first place. If Master Thomas had told her that the post included so many worthless discussions, she would have had second thoughts about accepting his offer. “God save the King.”
“God save the King,” they echoed back.
Gwen nodded. It was customary to start the meeting like that – and it also reminded them that King George, who had taken a much stronger interest in governing his country after the Swing, was one of her supporters. Not everyone liked the King, or respected him, but they’d be careful not to show disrespect in public. They never knew who might be listening.
“Before we start,” she continued, “do we have any urgent business?”
Sir James cleared his throat. “Ambassador Talleyrand has requested permission to visit the Royal College,” he said, shortly. “It is my very strong advice that permission be denied.”
There was a general rumble of agreement. Talleyrand was France’s Special Envoy, the man King Louis used to handle diplomatic incidents... and one of the smartest men in the world. Gwen doubted he was smarter than Lord Mycroft, but it hardly mattered. Allowing him to see the Royal College might have unforeseen consequences in the future. Who knew what piece of intelligence he’d find that could be put together with something else to create disastrous results?
But it was Gwen’s decision... and if her refusal caused a diplomatic incident, she’d be blamed.
“We could organise his tour so that he sees nothing useful,” she mused, aloud.
“It would be difficult to be certain,” Sir James said. “As you know, I have recommended that we move out of the city entirely...”
Gwen scowled as the old argument washed over her. After the Swing, when Cavendish Hall had been attacked and captured by the rebels, several of the younger magicians had advocated moving out of London. Cavendish Hall could serve as their headquarters, the Royal College could continue its research... but most of the magicians would train and live out of the city, where they would be less vulnerable to enemy attack. And, for that matter, less tempted by the pubs and fleshpots of London.
“But that would seem like a defeat,” Lord Brockton insisted. He’d said the same thing at a dozen earlier meetings. “We cannot run from our own capital city.”
Sir James scowled at him. “It isn’t a retreat,” he insisted, icily. “If we did our training outside the city, if nothing else, we would...”
“... Not be able to call on a reserve of magicians, if necessary,” Amherst said. “Besides, many of our trainees have other... requirements. We should not take them from London.”
Gwen tapped the table, exasperated. Had the senior magicians given Master Thomas so much trouble? “That is a debate for another time,” she said. Personally, she was inclined to agree with Sir James; moving the training facilities out into the countryside would give them much more room to operate, as well as keeping the young magicians away from London’s temptations. “For now, we shall d
eal with the French Ambassador.”
She was tempted to insist that Talleyrand be allowed to visit, knowing that it would annoy them, but it would be pointless spite. And Sir James did have a point.
“We shall politely deny his request,” she continued. “However, he may attempt to pressure our superiors into allowing him to visit. In that case, we shall conceal as much as possible before he arrives.”
She didn’t need to be Sensitive to sense their irritation. She’d compromised – just like a woman. Master Thomas would have said no and made it stick, but Master Thomas had had influence and knowledge no one else could match. Even if Gwen had been born a man, she couldn’t have wielded so much influence. And they would probably still have resented her.
“The first issue on the agenda, then, is recruitment,” she said, changing the subject. “Mr. Norton?”
Geoffrey Norton looked up from where he sat at the far end of the table. Like Doctor Norwell, he had no magic of his own and hence no vote on the committee – but he did have influence. Master Thomas had put him in charge of recruitment and personnel; the files stated that Gwen’s old mentor had believed that a magician would be likely to favour his own branch of magic over the others. Six months of wrestling with the senior magicians had convinced Gwen that he’d been right.
“The next intake of magicians are scheduled to enter the Royal College in two weeks,” he said, calmly. “That’s ninety-two magicians, mainly Blazers and Movers...”
Lord Brockton interrupted. “How many of them are from the lower classes?”
“Seventeen,” Norton said. If he resented being interrupted, he didn’t show it. “The remainder come from the upper classes or... adoptive families.”
The farms, Gwen thought, coldly. If there was one detail that had convinced her that the whole program was useless as well as morally disgusting, it was the simple fact that only one in four of the children ever developed magic. No one was quite sure how magic was passed down through the generations, but it was quite common for a magician to have children who didn’t seem to have magic. Or, for that matter, for two non-magicians to produce a magical child. Gwen’s parents had no magic and yet they’d produced a Master Magician.
“Seventeen,” Lord Brockton repeated. He looked over at Gwen and scowled. “And what will they do to the morals of the other magicians?”
Gwen couldn’t hide her irritation. They’d gone over the same issue at every single meeting Gwen had chaired, without even coming up with new arguments. By now, she could have argued their side – and the other side – in her sleep. And it never seemed to go away.
The Royal College and the Sorcerers Corps had started by only recruiting magicians from the upper classes – or the middle classes, if the magician in question was powerful enough to allow them to overlook his origins. Lower class magicians were rounded up and sent to the farms, which – unsurprisingly – encouraged the ones who escaped to stay underground. Many of them had joined Jack’s rebellion when he’d made his desperate bid to overthrow the government, if only in self-defence. They could expect no mercy if they were caught.
In the aftermath of the Swing, the Royal College had agreed to relax the barriers to entry, allowing lower-class magicians to enter formally and train with their social superiors. It hadn’t always gone well.
“I seem to recall,” she said tartly, “that nine out of ten of the last discipline issues that reached my desk concerned upper class students. And it wasn’t a lower class student who had to be expelled for stealing from his classmates.”
“But such matters were not a problem before lower class students joined the Royal College,” Lord Brockton insisted. “The morals of the next generation of magicians are being corrupted.”
Gwen rather doubted it. She’d had a hard time during her first few weeks of training- and there had been no lower class students at the time – but then, she’d been the only girl to enter the Royal College. In many ways, she had been very isolated. No one had asked her to go out for a night on the town. It just wasn’t done.
But he was right about one thing. Upper class students picked on the lower class students... and vice versa. And yet it was hard to see what could be done.
She smiled, sweetly. “Would you wish us to stop recruiting Healers?”
Lord Brockton’s face purpled. No one knew why, but all seven of the Healers discovered since the Swing were lower class. The Royal College tested hundreds of potential candidates every month, yet they’d been unsuccessful in finding an aristocratic Healer... In hindsight, Gwen suspected that they would have found Healers earlier if they’d abandoned their reluctance to recruit from the lower classes before the Swing.
And all but one of the Healers were female.
“Healers are a different issue,” he said, finally. “They certainly cannot be trained with the other students.”
Norton cleared his throat. “We shall graduate forty new magicians this year,” he said, defusing the tension in the room. “Most of them are already earmarked for the military, but the police have expressed an interest in additional Movers, should they be available.”
“Tricky,” Sir James pointed out, quietly. “We took losses during the Swing.”
Gwen nodded. The uprising had killed nearly half of the magicians who had been in training at the time, as well as a number of experienced tutors. In some ways, the problems Lord Brockton had complained about had been caused by the Swing; Master Thomas, whatever else he’d done, hadn’t ensured that there were tutors held in reserve. Given time, Gwen was sure that the problems would be overcome, but time seemed to be in short supply.
“The military comes first,” Lord Brockton insisted. “We may be at war with France by the end of the year.”
“True,” Gwen agreed. “On the other hand, we can keep a reserve of magicians in the capital and assign them to support the police.”
Surprisingly, there was no disagreement.
Sir Benjamin MacIver, Head of Changers, coughed for attention. “We must face facts,” he said, dispassionately. “We need more magicians.”
“Hence the decision to recruit from all classes,” Gwen reminded him, tartly. Sir Benjamin was less pointlessly obstructive than Lord Brockton, which made him all the more dangerous to Gwen’s position. “We need to find more magicians as quickly as possible.”
“Indeed we do,” Sir Benjamin said. “And while I share your disdain at the whole farm program, it was successful in providing us with additional magicians. Right now, however, we are dependent upon nature to provide us with new recruits.”
Gwen fought down the flash of rage that threatened to overcome her. Was she going to be fighting the same battle over and over again? Oh, she could see their point – magic had made the British Empire supreme and that supremacy had to be maintained – but it didn’t change the fact that the farms had been grossly immoral. And of questionable value.
“I believe that we can compromise,” Sir Benjamin oozed. “We have considerable funds available to us. It would be quite simple for us to pay women to have children with selected fathers and to supervise their upbringing. Should they have magic, we could take them into the Royal College from a very early age.”
“But such a program would be public,” Doctor Norwell pointed out. “It could hardly avoid being public. And then we’d be risking...”
“Very little,” Sir Benjamin stated. “There are plenty of women from the lower classes who sell their children. We would merely be purchasing the ones who... meet our demands.”
Gwen took advantage of the argument to concentrate her mind. She couldn’t show her anger openly or they’d just dismiss her as an emotional women, too emotional to be allowed anywhere near a position of power. Cold logic was required to outmanoeuvre Sir Benjamin, yet cold logic suggested that he was right. Why not pay women to have children with the right fathers?
As Royal Sorceress, Gwen had been asked to patronise a number of charities, including one intent on keeping fallen women off the st
reets. She’d looked into it before committing herself and discovered that the charity had a high failure rate. Puzzled – she would have accepted any offer that took her off the streets, if she’d lived there – Gwen had asked Lucy about it. And Lucy had pointed out that there were two factors that the high and mighty upper class women, who had never worked a day in their lives, had failed to take into account.
The first was economic; prostitutes earned more from prostituting themselves than they did by working in the jobs the charity had offered to them. And the second was pride; no one liked to be talked down to by a handful of condescending women who knew nothing of the reality of life on the streets. Or, for that matter, from churchmen who seemed to believe that they had a right to claim tithes from men and women who had little to spare.
“It seems a workable scheme,” Lord Brockton said. “We could study the possibility and then decide if we wanted to commit ourselves.”
“I suppose we could,” Gwen said, keeping her voice under tight control. “But have you considered the social impact?”
Sir Benjamin stared at her. “The social impact?”
Gwen allowed herself a smile, then looked directly at Norwell. “How many of our graduated magicians, the ones who would be expected to father those children, have wives and families of their own?”
Doctor Norwell blinked in surprise, but answered the question. “Almost all of them,” he said. “We increase the stipend for magicians who marry and produce children, so they have strong reason to be fruitful and multiply.”
Gwen looked back at Sir Benjamin. “The married magicians will have very unhappy wives if they father children with other women,” she pointed out, mildly. “Proven adultery can be used as ground for separation, even divorce. You cannot order a magician to impregnate another woman – and even if you did, his wife would still be furious. I think the results would be disastrous for morale at the very least.”
The Great Game (Royal Sorceress) Page 5
