Birtwistle’s eyes flitted around the open street as Calvin spoke, and something clicked in the back of his plastered brain: they were surrounded. The Parrys and the Martins and everyone who lived on their street had come out to see what the fuss was all about, and whether they intended to do anything or not, Birty could still do the math. Even with magic, their skills were outmatched.
Now it was on them to decide whether punishing Calvin for an accident was worth the fallout. There goes your balance, Calvin thought.
“I see what you’re about, then,” Birty whispered, his eyes steeling for a moment through the ale in his blood. “Clever one.”
“I’ve been accused of worse things than wit, m’lord.” Calvin had to fight every muscle in his face not to grin.
Birty’s wand snapped into his hand. For the briefest fraction of a second, Calvin thought he was done for, that the mage might just be gutsy enough to mow down an entire neighborhood, and that it would be all his fault . . . but then Birty trained the wand on Calvin’s empty bucket that lay in the road.
“Heofonfyr!” He uttered the magical curse with exceptional relish.
The bucket split into pieces, which then hovered and spun in a tight circle, glowing hot like embers in a fire. The pieces rose up a few feet off the ground and blasted out in every direction. Parts of Mr. Tanner’s yard caught fire, as did Calvin’s and the Parrys’. A sheep bleated as far away as the Adlers’ barn—a cry of pain, no doubt. Birtwistle cocked a half-smile, impressed with his work.
“Clumsy me,” he sneered.
For added measure, Fitznottingham thrust his wand at the pile of wool in Calvin’s yard and uttered a second spell.
“Formeltan!” The already-washed wool transfigured into a bubbling puddle of polluted tar, which pierced the evening air with a sharp stink.
“I do declare, it’s just not our day, is it, Hammond?” Fitz asked his friend. “I swear I can’t aim this thing to save my life.” He cackled at his own joke, nudging the mage-in-training with his elbow. The trainee regarded them all sourly, like he was too good to be wasting his time with any of this.
A shrill cry filled the air, a cry Calvin knew all too well. It came from his family’s barn, in his father’s voice.
“Calvin! What the . . . oh, Mr. Fitznottingham!”
There at the front door appeared Father, his clothes soiled from the day’s labor. Mother came up behind him and took stock of the situation. Father rushed out into the street to fawn over Fitz’s still-grimy robes; the water spell hadn’t removed all the grit.
“Your idiot son dumped a bucket of filthy water on me!” Fitz said.
“I am so sorry, sir! We’ll . . . we’ll. . .”
“Wash it all by hand,” suggested the bored apprentice, folding his arms.
“Of course!” Father agreed. “And we can—”
“Save it, you nits,” Birtwistle growled. He twirled his wand, muttered another spell, and removed the last of the water and oil from his friend’s robes, good as new. “You forget who you’re on with. That was a complicated bit of magic I just had to do, on account of your son. You reckon that ought to be free, then?”
“Surely not—,” Mother began.
Fitznottingham cut her off. “Good. Glad that’s settled.” He struck out with his wand one more time and made a broad, sweeping gesture at the Adlers’ land, muttering Saxon words under his breath. The very ground glowed with a dull, pulsing light, and for a brief moment Calvin feared that Fitz might burn their farm. Before a cry could escape his lips, the light pooled under a corner of the house foundation and then faded. With an evil grin, Fitz trained his wand at the window at that corner of the house—Mother and Father’s bedroom.
“Pening fleon!” he said.
A sharp crack of splitting wood echoed through the house, followed by the unmistakable clang of crunched metal that could only be the family’s strong box. Glass shattered as several pounds of gold crowns sprayed through the window, crushing it beyond all hope of repair. The coins slowed and drifted into the folds of Fitznottingham’s robes. From the look of it, Calvin guessed it to be most of what his family had saved for the past year.
Father gasped. Mother let out a muted whimper and raised a hand to her mouth.
“There. We’ll call that settled . . . for this month,” Birtwistle sneered. “Right then! Fitz, Godfrey, this way. I think we’ve worked hard enough for one day.”
As the mages retreated from the stone-silent street, pretending to be about a leisurely stroll, Calvin felt the heat of many eyes glaring at him, and not just from his parents. The Tanners, the Parrys and everyone else stared at him as if he’d just set fire to the general store.
Father cuffed him on the ear. “What the hell were you thinking, boy?”
“William, don’t. Not in the street,” Mother pleaded.
“Quiet, Becca.” To Calvin, he said, “That was our share to repay the franchiser. It’s due in a month and now we’ve got nothing. They’ll repossess the flock when we can’t pay!”
“How is that my fault? I’ve been sweating and bleeding into this mess just as much as you have,” Calvin shot back.
“And now it’s gone!” Father shouted.
“Why are you yelling at me? They’re the ones who took it!” Calvin shouted back, pointing down the street at the mages, who might not have been out of earshot.
Father snatched his ear and twisted it, dragging him back to the house. Mother was right on their heels. Calvin grimaced all the way back into the house where Father threw him inside and barred the door behind Mother.
“Damn it all, Calvin! You’ve ruined everything! I told you not to cause problems, that there would be consequences. Now look at us! We’ll never get that money back in time,” Father said, tears forming in his eyes.
“Bet you we could if we used my gin,” Calvin retorted. “You could have paid the franchiser a long time ago!”
“I hope you’re happy, son. I hope your nerve keeps you warm next month when we’re living in the woods and we’re out of food. There you can build all the machines you want! You damn fool boy.” Father trailed off and hunched over, his shoulders trembling as he sobbed, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Ruined. And we were so close.”
Mother moved to Father’s side to comfort him, not even looking in Calvin’s direction. Calvin pursed his lips. He couldn’t find it within himself to say anything more; it wasn’t like his parents would listen.
He retreated to his room. He didn’t doubt that he’d done a good thing, standing up to the mages in front of everyone else, and yet he hated seeing his parents in pain like that.
Yes, they were broke. No, it wasn’t his fault.
Every day he hated the mages a little more.
*
Godfrey Norrington had remained as quiet as a mouse during the entire exchange between Fitznottingham, Birtwistle, and the young colonial duffer. The boy had very obviously attacked them on purpose, though he hid his intent with admirable skill. If there was one emotion Godfrey could detect without trying, it was anger.
As a full mage, he had a wide variety of magical aptitudes. Mancers were usually limited to just one skill—controlling an element, or communicating with animals, or some such. Mages, on the other hand, could always explore and enhance their natural talents. Godfrey had learned even before his tenth birthday that he could detect what he called the “red emotions.” Lust, for example, was easily visible, and perhaps the most common. Jealousy was another (though people seemed to think it was green, for some foolish reason.) But nothing was ever more obvious than unbridled rage.
And that duffer brat, whoever he was, had been beet-red on the emotional spectrum when Godfrey first took notice of him. The sight of it gave him such a shock that he could only stare and watch the youth carry out his assault. Godfrey had never come across such a brazen duffer. Watching him explode on Fitz and Birty had given him the faintest taste of amusement.
Ever since Godfrey had been b
anished to the Maryland colony, he’d been starved for entertainment. So he’d let Birty and Fitz throw their tantrums and rob that family blind rather than execute the boy right there on the spot. Maybe if they hadn’t been so smashed, they’d have seen the truth for themselves. Then again, not many mages cared to develop their emotilectural prowess. And that was fine with Godfrey; when it came to reading emotions, he liked being the best.
He glanced over his shoulder as they walked away, and watched the boy’s father drag him back to the house. Godfrey thought of his own father far across the ocean in England, and for the briefest whisper of a moment, he felt for the young duffer.
My father’s a complete prat as well, he imagined himself saying to the boy. The he squashed that thought. One didn’t waste time making friends with duffers! He might as well befriend a diseased dog. Sighing to himself, Godfrey kept his hands clasped behind his back and brought up the rear behind Fitz and Birty as they marched back to the dormitory where they lived.
Godfrey had his own machinations upon which to dwell—
namely, how to get off this wretched continent and get back to England. Godfrey Norrington was meant for greater things than this, no matter what his git father had to say about it.
*
Around midnight Calvin awoke to a tapping sound against his bedroom window. Pushing himself up on the sawdust mattress, he groaned at the soreness in his body and sat upright to see what the ruckus was. He bumped into someone in the dark and froze. A cry formed in his throat, but it died on his lips, smothered by a gloved hand. Two more unseen hands pinned his arms to his sides. His body flooded with strength born of sudden panic. Calvin thrashed and tried to pull free, but the intruders had been ready for this, and they held fast.
“Hush now, Calvin Adler. We’re not mages, and we’re on your side,” whispered a voice beside his ear.
Against the dimly lit window he saw the silhouette of a third figure pulling the window closed. That was the tapping he’d heard—strangers entering his house!
“I am going to release you now. If you make any noise, if you call to your parents, we will subdue you with greater force. You will not enjoy it,” the voice warned. “Understood?”
Breathing in short bursts through his nose, Calvin mumbled his consent. The glove pulled away from his mouth. He tugged free and staggered back, wishing desperately for a light, and even more so for a weapon. His first wish was granted: the man who’d spoken lit a candle, throwing up a circus of flickering shadows around the small room. Calvin narrowed his eyes.
“Hey! You were in the Tanners’ yard—”
Immediately the hand covered his mouth again.
“Too loud! Be quieter. Last warning,” the man said. Eyes wide, Calvin nodded, and the man relaxed, the candlelight flickering against the hard features of his face. His comrades flanked him, and Calvin got a good look at their faces.
They were of a large build and grizzled in appearance, what with their traveling coats, their high boots and all manner of gear about them. The leader—that was how Calvin perceived him—had a three-day beard and dark hair that hung in his eyes. The man on his left had sandy blond hair that curled, and the third man bore a prominent moustache that almost covered his lip.
Calvin took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “What are you doing in my house?” he demanded.
“Won’t be yours for much longer, the way I hear it. Unless of course someone were to return these.” The leader dropped a small canvas bag at Calvin’s feet. It thudded heavily against the floorboards. Whatever was inside, it clinked like metal. Calvin’s heart beat a little bit faster.
“No way.”
“Gold crowns. Every last one of them.”
“Who are you?” Calvin asked.
“My name is John Penn. These are my associates, Griff Cade and Daniel Aberforth. We are, well, equalizers, of a sort,” John said. “Some people need jobs done, and we bring in the tools to do them.” He nudged the bag of coins with the toe of one boot.
“You lifted this off of Fitz and Birty?”
“Yeah. It was fun,” said Daniel, the curly-haired man.
“No way,” Calvin whispered. “How? They’re mages.”
“And we’re technomancers,” said John.
Calvin fixed the man with a blank stare. “Say again?”
“Technomancers,” echoed the one called Griff.
“You’re magicians, then?”
They laughed quietly. “No,” John said. “It’s science, not magic. Whereas pyromancers use fire or somnomancers manipulate dreams, technomancers use technology.”
When John figured that Calvin didn’t know that last word, he explained further: “Machines. Instruments. Things that can level the playing field against magic.” He produced a printed square of paper from his breast pocket and handed it over. Calvin held it up to the light.
There was a drawing on the face of it, depicting a man in sturdy clothing, brandishing weapons at a man opposite him. This second figure was clearly a British mage, who held up his hands in an act of pleading. The inscription around the drawing read, “You can do any job with the right tool.”
“By the Crown,” Calvin breathed. “You’re rebels!”
The mustachioed man chuckled. “If only that began to cover it, kid.”
“But you can fight mages?”
“All the time. Fight ‘em, kill ‘em, whatever it takes.”
Calvin studied the drawing. The man on the left—a technomancer—brandished a knife and something else. Something Calvin had seen only in drawings, something that had been forbidden since time immemorial.
A handgun.
“No way. No way. You guys don’t have guns. Nobody does.”
The words hadn’t even made it all the way out of his mouth before each man’s hand was at his hip, digging in a leather holster and snapping a pistol out for proof. Calvin gasped; he reached out to touch John’s gun, but John drew it back and replaced it in his holster, his fingers easily accustomed to holding and twirling the thing.
“This isn’t a social call. We came to this town in search of new cadets. Mr. Tanner’s skill as a metalsmith caught my eye, but somehow I don’t think he has the temperament to do what we do. You, on the other hand . . . what are you, about fifteen?”
“Yes, this summer past,” Calvin answered automatically, eyes still fixed on the men’s guns. Real guns.
“Good. You’re older than a lot of kids we’ve had in the past,” said John. “You want to learn how to shoot a gun?”
He couldn’t believe his ears. “You serious?”
“Dead serious. And guns are only the simplest of our machines. You know how the mages have monsters that they control with magic? Well we have monstrosities of our own, made of metal and powered by engines. Tanner mentioned that you built a machine last year. It must have worked rather well for the mages to destroy it.”
“It worked great,” Calvin growled.
“Mechanical inclination will serve you well as a technomancer. There is no shortage of weapons and tools at our disposal, Calvin. What we need are good people to wield them. Our training camp is a few days away from here, and the director will accept new recruits for the next little while.” John pointed a finger at Calvin, completing the thought.
“I . . .” Calvin closed his eyes and rubbed the heels of his hands against them. “Hang on. You want me to leave my home and go train with guns so I can fight mages. Right?”
“Guns are better than sluice buckets,” Daniel pointed out.
Calvin looked past them at his bedroom door. Beyond it was the short hallway to his parents’ room. Their floorboards were still torn up from the mages’ summoning spell, and it would be months before they could afford to have Mr. Tanner fix the strong box—unless they spent the coins at Calvin’s feet. “I can’t do that. I’ve already caused my parents enough trouble.”
“More trouble than the mages?” John asked, arching one eyebrow.
Calvin’s heart beat a litt
le faster. “That’s not it. I can’t leave the farm. There’s work.”
“And workers here to do it. The farm will still be here in six weeks, especially now that your family’s finances are secured.”
Fidgeting, he frowned at the recruiters. “What’s in six weeks?”
Daniel and Griff exchanged a hesitant look, but John never took his eyes off Calvin. “In six weeks there will be a massive, organized attack against the mages’ greatest weakness on this continent. They don’t know that we know where to strike them, which gives us the advantage. Our disadvantage is that we’re hindered by our lack of numbers: we have more weapons than warriors. If you really want to save your town, if you really want to be rid of Fitz and Birty, then leave with us and become a technomancer. You’ll have food, clothing, and your own equipment. In a matter of months, you and everyone you know and love could be free people. For that, the wool can run thin for a season, don’t you agree?” John asked.
Calvin grew quiet, succumbing to a kind of stillness that was altogether alien to him. How many times had he dreamed of having power over Fitznottingham and Birtwistle? Surely he’d wanted it when he picked up his bucket and crossed the road. Well, here was his chance at last. What we he so scared of? Abandoning Mother and Father?
You can do any job with the right tool.
“What if I say no?” Calvin asked flatly.
John shrugged and let his hand fall to the gun at his hip. “Well, I did just spill a very sensitive secret. We protect our secrets, Calvin. There’s a reason why you haven’t heard of us.”
Rebel Heart Page 2
