“Well,” he said. “This is a surprise.”
“Mr. Howell,” Gwen said, flatly. She’d memorised the whole routine at Lestrade’s insistence. “You are under arrest on suspicion of practising magic without a licence or registration papers. It is my duty to warn you that you do not have to say anything at this time, but anything you do say may be taken down and used against you in a court of law. I must also test you for magic now...”
Howell lifted a finger. A second later, the side wall exploded inwards, throwing chunks of debris towards Gwen and Sir Charles. Gwen shielded herself automatically as she sensed two sources of magic coming through where the wall had been, both illegal magicians. Magic crackled through the air, picking up more debris and slamming it towards Gwen. Both magicians were Movers, she realised. If there were any others, she couldn’t sense them.
She pulled her own magic around her, then reached out towards the lead magician. He was strong, but untrained; it was easy to slam enough magic into his shield to send him staggering backwards. The other seemed to be more determined; Gwen had barely a second’s warning before he picked her up with his magic, shield and all, and threw her into the far wall. She winced as her shield slammed into the wall, then drew on her magic, directing a beam of raw energy towards the Mover. There was a brilliant shimmer of light as magic crackled over his shield. She couldn’t help noticing that he looked surprised... didn’t he know who he was fighting?
Gwen yanked herself forward and slammed her magic into his, sending him staggering backwards. He had more raw power than she’d realised, but he hadn’t quite grasped what it meant to fight a Master Magician. Gwen borrowed Sir James’s idea, reshaped her magic and poked into his protective bubble. He let out a yelp and jumped backwards, barely avoiding the beam of magic she threw at him.
“Sit down and surrender,” she ordered, pushing as much Charm into her voice as she could. “Give up!”
Both magicians seemed to hesitate, before shaking off the effect. Gwen cursed inwardly and scooped up several pieces of debris, infusing them with magic before hurling them at the two magicians. Their bubbles wavered alarmingly as the debris exploded, shaking their confidence as well as their magic. And then they returned to the attack.
A blast of light struck Gwen’s bubble; a Blazer had entered the fight. Gwen looked up, saw a man wearing a servant’s uniform and drew on her magic, picking him up and hurling him into the wall. A Blazer had no protective bubble to shield him; he struck the wall hard enough to crack his skull. Gwen grinned, knowing that she’d regret it afterwards, and looked up at the two Movers. If they’d had the same skill and experience as Merlin, she would have been dead by now. But as it was, they seemed to want to retreat.
“Give up,” she said, again. “I promise you both a fair hearing...”
They hit her together, slamming their power into her bubble. Gwen felt it buckling and stepped to one side, barely noticing that Sir Charles was fighting two other servants, both of whom seemed to be carrying clubs rather than firearms. One of the Movers leapt forward, trying to grab hold of her magic; she reached out with her own, tangled the two magic fields together and slammed him into the wall. There was a fearsome crash as parts of the roof started to cave in. The Mover turned, his magic flickering in and out of existence, and she drove a beam of energy through his skull. His entire body caught fire; Gwen heard, or thought she heard, a scream before he crumbled to the floor.
She turned to face the other Mover, who picked up and threw a grand piano at her with the force of his magic. Gwen winced, realised that she couldn’t hope to block it and jumped upwards, using her magic to fly over the piano as it hurtled underneath her. A moment later, she threw her own magic into direct conflict with his, pushing against his protective bubble. His face was twisted with effort as he tightened his defences, keeping her out. Gwen pushed down, smiling inwardly at the expression on his face. From his point of view, the foolish female was actually strengthening his shield.
Gwen met his eyes, then nodded downwards as she sent magic crawling through the floorboards. Her infusing talent was nowhere near as developed as a pure Infuser, but it hardly mattered. The blast was uncontrolled, yet confined within the Mover’s protective bubble. It collapsed a second after its creator was blown to bits. Gwen staggered backwards as the backlash struck her, then shrugged it off. There was no time to collapse herself.
Sir Charles had knocked down two servants and was battling three more. He seemed to be enjoying himself, although Gwen was sure that three-to-one were bad odds. She lashed out with her magic and slammed two of them back out the doorway and into the corridor, then turned to find Howell. He had crept away during the fighting... cursing, Gwen ran after him and saw the blackmailer heading out of a side door. No doubt he thought he could be over the wall and away before the fighting came to an end. She reached out, caught him with her magic and pulled him back inside.
“Sit down,” she ordered, as she slammed him into the armchair. Changing wasn’t her forte either, but it was easy enough to reshape the chair to produce makeshift handcuffs. Howell struggled against them, glaring up at her; thankfully, he wasn’t strong enough to break the wood. Gwen would have had to do something less pleasant to keep him still if he had been. “And be quiet.”
Sir Charles finished knocking down the servant and looked over at her. “Jesus Christ,” he said, as his gaze moved from Gwen to the half-destroyed house. “Is this what it’s always like for you?”
Gwen winced inwardly, wondering if he would decide that he no longer wanted anything to do with her. The house had seemed solid until Howell’s Movers and Gwen had fought at point-blank range; now, it seemed on the verge of collapse. One of Gwen’s tutors had spoken about supporting walls and pillars that helped keep the roof up; the fight might well have knocked one or more of them out of position. And a solid wall was so badly damaged that a large wardrobe had been knocked down, revealing another hidden safe beyond. It looked large enough to allow someone to step inside without feeling cramped.
“Sometimes,” she said. Apart from the practice skirmish with Merlin, she hadn’t fought a battle of such violence since Master Thomas had died. One Mover would have been easy to kill. “Can you check the bodies?”
“You’ll regret this,” Howell informed her. “Do you know how many friends I have in high places?”
“I have a vague idea how many people you have blackmailed,” Gwen said, tiredly. “Did we kill all of your horde of magicians or are there others out there?”
Howell merely smirked. “Even you must realise that you have overstepped yourself,” he said. “And you” – he looked up at Sir Charles – “are not untouchable either.”
“I’ve been threatened by experts,” Sir Charles said, as he checked the bodies one by one. “You’re nothing to an Emir who has been known to have his cooks hauled off and beheaded for having the nerve to undercook his meals. And you really don’t want to know what he did to his wife when he discovered that she was having an affair with his chief huntsman.”
He looked over at Gwen. “The magicians are dead,” he said, shortly. “I killed one of the servants, but the others are still alive.”
“Find something to tie them up,” Gwen ordered. “Then go check the rest of the house; if there are any other servants, they’re under arrest too. But be careful.”
There was a faint snicker from Howell as soon as Sir Charles had left the room. “You should be more careful, my dear,” he sneered. “Don’t you know what I can do?”
Gwen shrugged. “The entire world knows what sort of child I was,” she said. If they hadn’t known, Colonel Sebastian’s hints would have pointed them in the right direction. “And you had at least three illegal magicians in this house, working for you. Hiring an illegal magician is, in itself, illegal.”
She smiled, tiredly. “Speaking of which...”
Howell cringed away as she reached for him and touched his forehead, keeping her mental shields firmly in place. She fel
t a mental attack as soon as she made physical contact – and sensed magic, bubbling just under Howell’s skin. Even without the attack, she would have had the proof she needed. She was right. Howell was an unregistered Talker.
“I saw your feelings for him,” Howell said, as she broke contact. “Do you know that he’s a bastard son?”
Gwen winced. Howell was a better mind-reader than she’d realised. But then, he had had about as much practice as Irene and fewer scruples.
“I know the truth of his origins,” she said, softly. “And you know what? I don’t care.”
She gathered herself as she stared down at him. “Tell me,” she said, forcing Charm into her words. “Why did you go to visit Sir Travis?”
Howell glared at her, his lips firmly pressed closed.
“You will answer,” Gwen said, strengthening the Charm. “Why did you go to Sir Travis’s house?”
His lips opened, then he managed to close them. Gwen was impressed, despite herself; few people could resist such strong Charm. But she needed answers.
“You will answer,” she repeated, then changed tack. “Did you go there intending to tell him about Lady Elizabeth’s previous relationship?”
“Yes,” Howell said, then clamped his mouth shut again. The simpler question had worked its way through his defences.
Gwen smiled, coldly. “And you found out from reading the maid’s mind that he had debts to pay?”
“Yes,” Howell said. He spoke on, although she couldn’t tell if the Charm was finally breaking him down or if he was trying to overwhelm her with words. “He refused to take my money and ordered me to leave. So I did.”
Blood dripped down from his mouth as he changed the subject. “I know your mother’s greatest secret,” he said, tauntingly. “If you don’t let me go, the secret will come out and she will be disgraced.”
Gwen glared at him, but he hadn’t finished.
“I know many secrets,” he leered. He sounded almost dazed. “I know things about your previous Master that would make you blush. Or about some of the men you rely on in Cavendish Hall. Why do you think I was able to hire so many magicians for so long?”
“Master Thomas is dead,” Gwen said, coldly. What did Howell know? She wasn’t sure that she wanted to know. “And I know too many of his secrets.”
“There are ones that no one dared write down,” Howell informed her. “I know them.”
“Later,” Gwen said, as she pushed more Charm into her voice. “Do you know who murdered Sir Travis?”
“No,” Howell admitted.
Gwen winced as the trickle of blood from his mouth dripped onto the carpet. “Do you know who might have a motive to murder Sir Travis?”
Howell actually giggled. “The owner of the Golden Turk?”
His giggling grew nastier. “Always rumours about that place,” he added. “Some of them were even confirmed. My, oh my, how easy it is for someone to compromise themselves when they get too close to the east. They take it up the rear end, they do.”
Gwen had a nasty feeling that she knew what that meant; she certainly didn’t want to enquire further. “Do you know anything about Hiram Pasha?”
“Typical shifty Turk,” Howell said. The daze in his voice was growing stronger. “Undercuts his enemies by drawing funds from Turkey, the nasty bugger. He can undersell them all and put them out of business, then start jacking up prices. Should be laws against it. Probably are, but no one cares if you have the leverage and I do...”
Gwen frowned. Lord Mycroft had said that Hiram Pasha was a spy for the Sultan, who was presumably bankrolling his business. With that advantage, he could afford to undercut everyone else... but it would make him enemies, who might have a good reason to publicly question the value of a Turkish alliance. And it would put British citizens out of work... it didn’t take much to spark the fires of xenophobia in London.
Howell’s voice suddenly sounded a great deal more rational. “I can forgive you the mess you have made of my home,” he said. “You can release me; I’ll destroy the evidence I accumulated on your mother and give you what I found on the men who are supposed to work for you. There will be no need to mention this to anyone...”
Gwen felt her temper snap. “Damn you,” she snapped, Charm flowing into her voice. “What do you have on my mother?”
“I... I won’t tell you,” Howell said. Blood was leaking from his nose. It happened to Talkers who pushed themselves too far, but no one was quite sure why. “You’ll have to bargain with me.”
“No,” Gwen hissed. She turned up the pressure as far as she could, hitting him with enough Charm to make an army surrender without a fight. “You will tell me...”
There was a sudden rush of... something and Howell slumped in his chair. Gwen swore like a trooper, realising that he’d been pushing against her mind all along, and peered down at him. Drool was dripping from his opened mouth; the stench reaching her nostrils suggested that he’d soiled himself. Carefully, she touched his forehead and sensed... nothing. His mind seemed to have completely gone.
What the hell had she done?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ithink I broke his mind,” Gwen confessed, as Sir Charles stepped back into the wrecked room. “Did you find anyone else?”
“A couple of maids and a cook,” Sir Charles said. “I tied all three of them up and left them in the kitchen.”
“Good,” Gwen said. She looked down at Howell’s twitching body and tried to tell herself not to feel guilty. “I don’t know if he can recover from what I did to him.”
“There is no shortage of people who will thank you,” Sir Charles said, rather dryly. “I dare say that half of London will be singing your praises by the end of the day.”
Gwen shrugged. Maybe he was right... or maybe they would just end up more scared of her than ever. Had Master Thomas ever snapped a person’s mind? Some talents caused madness, particularly if they were developed too early, but she’d never heard of anyone being driven into a catatonic state by an outsider.
“Maybe,” she said, looking over at the safe. “I need you to go get the police – again.”
“You’d think that someone would have called them already,” Sir Charles pointed out. “This is a wealthy area...”
“Howell wouldn’t have thanked them for calling the police,” Gwen said. It was quite possible that he’d had something on all of his neighbours, something to keep them minding their own business at all times. “Take the carriage and see if you can find someone senior – and discreet, if Lestrade isn’t around.”
Sir Charles gave her an odd look, then nodded and walked out the room. Gwen turned her attention back to Howell and frowned, wondering if his mind was trapped inside itself, unable to break free. Or maybe it had completely departed his body, leaving nothing more than an empty shell. There was no way to know, but Gwen was sure of one thing. The body would die unless someone fed and watered it every day.
She turned and walked towards the exposed safe, reaching out with her mind to study it. In some ways, it was simpler than Sir Travis’s safe, suggesting that Howell hadn’t fully trusted any magician. On the other hand, even the most competent Mover would have trouble breaking in; the locking mechanism was astonishingly complex. And she would have bet half her salary that Howell had been the only one with the combination to get inside.
Gritting her teeth, she used her magic to carefully unpick the lock. It was clever, she realised, devilishly clever... and if she hadn’t been so good at multitasking, it might well have defeated her. Pull the wrong part of the lock with magic and heavy bolts would fall, sealing the safe beyond hope of access. It made her wonder, as the safe clicked open, why someone hadn’t simply sealed the safe before. But Howell had just been too intimidating to challenge openly.
She pulled the door open and looked inside. It was larger than she’d realised, easily the size of a small office, the walls lined with shelves. The shelves were covered in paper folders, each one marked in neat precise ha
ndwriting. Gwen picked up one of the folders and glanced at it, absently. It was marked Lord Horatio Nelson. Inside, she found a handful of papers and stared down at them, slowly realising that they dealt with the birth of Lady Hamilton’s love child. But everyone knew that the poor child was Nelson’s illegitimate daughter. There was no blackmail value in that.
Slowly, a scandal began to emerge as she read through the papers. Nelson’s wife had died in 1805, taken by an illness that – some suspected – might have been poison. What if Lord Nelson had killed her so that Lady Hamilton could take her place? But she hadn’t... Lord Nelson had never married her. Had Howell played a role in ensuring that such a marriage never took place?
Carefully, feeling almost defiled, she put the papers back in the folder and returned the folder to its place, before looking along the list of names. Several jumped out at her, including Lord Mycroft; surprised, she opened it and saw a simple note written in the same handwriting. Where is his sister? Gwen frowned; Lord Mycroft had never mentioned a sister to her, but then he was an intensely private man. Apart from his brother, she knew nothing about his family, not even where they came from. She turned the note over and read a second piece of handwriting on the back. Connections to France through Horace Vernet?
“Not exactly something you could use for blackmail,” Gwen muttered to herself. The Royal Family had strong ties to monarchies on the continent, even the French or Spanish. There weren’t that many upper-class families that didn’t have at least a vague connection with the world outside Britain. “But what if he used it at a crucial moment?”
She put the folder back and started hunting for Sir Travis’s folder. It was at the front of the safe, suggesting that Howell had looked at it recently; she took it off the shelf and opened it, half-afraid of what she might find. But there was almost nothing, apart from a note stating that Sir Travis owed four thousand pounds – maybe more – to the Golden Turk. The other papers consisted of biographical notes, including the titbit that Sir Travis was a Sensitive. That explained, Gwen decided, why Howell hadn’t risked reading Sir Travis’s mind. The Sensitive would probably pick up on it and react harshly.
The Great Game (Royal Sorceress) Page 26
