by Gail Dayton
“You say your enemies are the criminals.” Gathmann sounded scornful. “Criminals always claim innocence. Always blame the law for being in the wrong, abusing its power. It is the law.”
Amanusa turned her head to stare at the Prussian, using her gaze as he tried to use his earlier. She was more successful, for Gathmann flushed and looked away. “The law can be used to protect the people from those with power and wealth, or it can be used as a bludgeon against the powerless. Surely, in the years since Yvaine’s death, when sorcery was lost to you, the magician’s councils have not forgotten that innocent blood will cry out for justice, and that only sorcery can hear that cry.”
Most of the others could not meet her eyes either. The American governor, a brash young man with a gray alchemist’s stole over his shoulders, was one of the few who did. “Yeah, I’ve heard that. I’ve also been told that blood doesn’t lie. That true too?”
Amanusa inclined her head. “It is. Blood carries only truth.”
The Egyptian’s eyes narrowed as he glared at her. “But the sorceress—being a woman and therefore weak—she can lie.”
Gathmann cut him off. “We are not getting into that debate.”
Tomlinson spoke up again. “Seems to me the important thing here is that the first time Miss Whitcomb cut loose with powerful sorcery is also the first time these dead zones ever shrank instead o’ growin’. Seems obvious to me that shows ‘ow much we need the sorcery she can work. Don’t matter ‘ow offended you are by the idea of a female doin’ magic. Be offended all you want. But don’t you dare say we don’t need ‘er. And don’t you dare say she can’t be what she already is. She is a sorceress.”
“If you bunch don’t want her working magic here in the Old World,” the American said, “we’ll take her in America. Her and her fella. We’re not so stuck in the old ways of doing things.”
“Miss Whitcomb is a member of the British Magician’s Council,” Sir William said stiffly.
Amanusa thought it was rather dog-in-the-mangerish of him. He didn’t particularly want her, but he didn’t want any of the others to have her or her magic either.
While all the men stood about scowling at her, Jax leaned forward to murmur in Amanusa’s ear, reminding her of the machine they’d lugged all the Way from the rebel camp.
“Speaking of the dead zones…” Amanusa reluctantly called their attention back her way. “We have a machine, a thing that moved on its own and attacked a man, that we think came from one of these dead zones. We brought it with us, sealed in a case. I can handle it, but Jax cannot. If you have scholars—”
“Yes, excellent. This is excellent news.” Gathmann rubbed his hands in apparent delight. “We did not know about such machines until Herr Tomlinson encountered one that day, the day of the shrinking. We have seen them ourselves. Our magicians have been trying to catch one ever since, without much luck.”
“We will be happy to turn it over—”
“I’ll take you,” Tomlinson offered. “The blokes in the laboratory’ll want to quiz you about it. About everything, I reckon.”
“No decision has been made about admission to the conclave,” the Russian conjurer said.
“If she is a member of the British council, any decision before the conclave regarding admission is moot,” Gathmann said. “She is a British magician, therefore she is recognized by the conclave.”
“Egypt will never recognize a woman—”
“Egypt does not have to,” Gathmann said. “Nor does Hungary or Transylvania or Turkey or anyone who does not wish to recognize her. But Egypt is not the conclave.”
“Bloody good thing, too,” Tomlinson muttered.
Amanusa wondered if Sir William would reveal her provisional status, but he remained silent.
“Very well.” Gathmann came to attention. “Let us return to the Chambre de Conseil for the announcement to the conclave. However, I think we should keep this news among magicians only. The public might not take well to knowing that blood sorcery is once more among us. We do not want to upset them.”
When they went back into the council hall, Gathmann insisted Jax wait in the lobby, since he had admitted he was no magician. Then the Prussian made Amanusa climb the platform with him and the other governors for the announcement. She felt vulnerable standing on the dais with all those men staring at her, without Jax at her side. But at a distance, she could sense Jax’s supportive presence. It helped.
Herr Gathmann’s announcement that Amanusa was accepted by the conclave as a sorcery-practicing magician caused an uproar in the chamber. Several of the delegates attempted to walk out of the proceeding, but the Praetor-President had stationed burly ushers at every door to prevent it. When the shouting finally quieted, he explained his reasoning and his request to keep the news from the general populace.
“This is a matter that concerns magicians, and magicians alone,” he bellowed over the residual noise. “Only we know what is truly at stake here, and only we know the truth about sorcery.”
“Evil!” someone screeched from the back. “Spawned by Satan!”
Amanusa wondered if it might be the English wizard, Mr. Cranshaw, but the room was too tumultuous and the voice too strained for her to be sure.
“It is magic!” Gathmann shouted back. “And it is not a matter for the uninitiated.”
Amanusa hadn’t actually been initiated either. She wondered what initiation might entail.
“Do you swear?” Gathmann called out.
Amanusa felt magic rising, magic tasting of earth and of green growing things, and of a sharpness that had to be conjury, and she wondered whether she ought to—or could—add in the coppery blood-taste of sorcery. Then again, they weren’t used to even the idea of sorcery. Best not to confront them with its reality yet.
“Swear.” Gathmann’s voice rode the magic, reaching every corner of the dark, wood-paneled chamber. “Swear that you will keep this knowledge, magician’s business, to magicians alone. Swear that you will reveal it only to those who have a right to know.”
Amanusa winced. He shouldn’t have added that last bit. Some might use it as a loophole to tell whomever they pleased, because they “have a right to know.” Perhaps Gathmann intended it. Perhaps he wanted non-magicians to know, wanted to incite a riot and get rid of her that way. But they were already swearing, locking the oaths in with magic to prevent betrayal.
Maybe Gathmann was only bad with words, rather than malicious. Or perhaps he was stupid, which was as troublesome. Amanusa wished she knew. Maybe she could sneak a bit of magic into his tea…
“Miss Whitcomb?” Tomlinson stood at the edge of the dais, bouncing on his toes. “You ready to fetch that machine o’ yours? The lads’ll be gobsmacked to see it.”
And Jax would be waiting for her in the lobby. “Yes.” She hurried down the steps, remembering to bob a farewell curtsy to the governors at the last minute.
Tomlinson plowed a path through the throngs in the aisle. Amanusa’s hoops jostled her this way and that as she tried to keep up with him, as those he’d moved aside pressed in again to slake their curiosity or vent their outrage. “Oh!”
A pair of particularly persistent men coming at her from either side managed to crack one of her hoops. Tomlinson whirled, grabbed the nearest by his jacket, and flung him aside. “Leave off!” he roared. “She’s a lady!”
“She’s a sorceress!” someone shouted back.
The crowd around her felt more curious than threatening, but there was enough menace to it that fear skittered up Amanusa’s spine. Never let them see it.
She tossed her head, hoping to draw attention to her clever feathered cap as she drew off one of her gloves and slipped her bare hand into her pocket. The pocket where she kept her sorcerer’s lancet.
“Yes.” She pitched her voice where it would carry. “I am a sorceress. And so, even if you do not believe I deserve the courtesies usually rendered to a member of my sex, do I not at least deserve respect? Respect for the magic I wield? For the magic in blo
od?”
She raised her hand, finding a spot of light to reflect off the polished silver tip of the lancet on her forefinger. She curled her fingers, making them graceful, with only a hint of claw, save for the one with the lancet. That one she used to point at the men crowding her. As she pointed, they backed away. “I will demand compensation from the conclave for the damage to my wardrobe,” she said. “But from you, I demand respect.”
Amanusa looked pointedly at the men standing in the aisle, in her way, trying her best to imitate Inquisitor Kazaryk’s intimidating, imperious glare. She must have copied it well, or perhaps it was the lancet on her finger that she flicked from side to side, gesturing for a clear path, for they melted away. She gathered her sagging skirts in both hands and swept forward, hurrying in hopes that no one would change his mind before she reached Jax.
He was at the door, helping the ushers clear the way, holding back the magicians who had come through the lobby wanting a look at her, a piece of her. She smiled and nodded, shook the hands of those who seemed less aggressive, and finally the lobby began to clear. Amanusa took a deep breath in relief.
Jax smiled his faint smile and patted her hand as he tucked it in the crook of his arm. “Enthusiasm can be exhausting.”
“I do think I’ve had all the enthusiasm I can take for a while.” She strolled with Jax toward the door. “But we still have to deliver that machine to Mr. Tomlinson’s ‘lads.’ And answer their questions.”
“More enthusiasm,” he said gloomily.
Amanusa laughed. She was still laughing as they emerged from the building into the afternoon sunshine where the English delegates waited on the steps. As she descended with Jax to join them, holding up her broken hoop with one hand, a smallish woman in dark green came rushing up the other way.
“Uncle Billy—Sir William, is it true?” The woman came to a panting halt, hoops swaying, on the step below the group of men. “I heard you admitted a woman to the council as a magician.”
She spotted Amanusa coming down the steps and darted around the men. “Are you the one? The magician?” Her somewhat plain face was alight with excitement, alive with eagerness, and the glow made her pretty, if not outright beautiful.
Amanusa had to smile at her. “I am Amanusa Whitcomb. This is my fiance Jax. I am the new—” She broke off, looking at the busy street below. “I am a magician, yes.”
“Provisional status,” Sir William harrumphed. “Pending confirmation of her apprenticeship to Yvaine of Braedun.”
“Yvaine…” The young woman’s mouth dropped open, then the light in her eyes returned, fiercer than before, and she seized Amanusa’s hand, the skirt falling to drag on the stairs. “This is marvelous. To have the return of—”
“We’re keeping that bit quiet just now, Miss Tavis,” Tomlinson interrupted, controlling his accent. “To keep from alarming the civilians.”
“Miss Whitcomb.” Sir William couldn’t have been any stiffer if he had a fence post sewn up the back of his coat. “Mr… Jax, forgive my goddaughter for her shocking lack of manners. This is Miss Elinor Tavis. Who should not be in Paris at all.”
“Are you a magician, Miss Tavis?” Amanusa could sense a faint aura coming through the hands that squeezed hers. “Let me guess—a wizard?”
“She is not—” Sir William began.
“How did you—” Miss Tavis blurted.
“I’ve asked Miss Tavis as my apprentice.” Mr. Tomlinson was the only one who got all the way through his sentence.
So this was the one. Amanusa should have guessed, but she’d forgotten the woman’s name almost as soon as Tomlinson had mentioned it. “It is a true pleasure to meet you, Miss Tavis.” Amanusa squeezed the other woman’s hands in return and beamed a smile at her.
“Please, call me Elinor.” With another squeeze, Elinor released Amanusa, allowing her to gather her wounded skirts.
They walked side by side all the way back to the hotel, talking magic. The men trailed silently behind. Elinor might have come up to their suite with them, so thirsty was she to talk about magic, but Mr. Tomlinson asked her to remain behind to “discuss a certain matter.” Amanusa assumed he meant to have an answer to the apprenticeship question, but she wouldn’t pry. Not unless she didn’t hear anything without asking.
The machine was still in its case. Or it should be. Amanusa hadn’t looked since she shut it in the new case. The locks hadn’t been opened and the seals hadn’t been touched. It still felt heavy when she lifted it, enough so that Jax scolded when he took it from her.
Amanusa changed out of her white dress. She felt like a beacon in it, calling all her enemies to her. Besides, her hoop had to be repaired. The simple navy blue dress she put on had a narrower silhouette, needing no hoops. It would be much easier to walk in. Or to ride in the hired carriage awaiting them.
It was a large carriage, big enough for Amanusa, Jax, and Mr. Tomlinson, as well as Elinor who still wanted to talk magic, and Mr. Carteret who seemed to hope for mayhem and rioting, at least in small amounts.
“Well?” Amanusa looked brightly from Elinor, squeezed on one side of her, to Mr. Tomlinson, squeezed in almost as tightly between Jax and Mr. Carteret on the opposite seat. It was a large carriage, but perhaps not quite large enough. “Did you give Mr. Tomlinson your answer, Elinor?”
“One would think you had proposed marriage, Harry, the way everyone’s going on about it.” Mr. Carteret seemed to enjoy risking his life, given the way he kept provoking people.
“Shut up, Grey,” Tomlinson growled.
Elinor blushed, but it didn’t stop her speaking. “Oh no, Mr. Carteret. This is of far, far more import than mere marriage. Which is why I have been so careful with my answer.” She shot a look at the alchemist from beneath her lashes. “And I have told Mr. Tomlinson that I would be honored to serve as his apprentice.”
The man in question cleared his throat. “We’ll make it official when we get back to London. And call me Harry. All of you. I’m no ‘Mister.’ Leastways not with friends.” He gave Carteret a sour look. “An’ whatever Grey here is.”
“Neutral acquaintance, old chap.” Carteret clapped Harry on the shoulder, or tried to. He wasn’t entirely successful in the close confines of the carriage. “Or at least, non-enemies. And I shall ask everyone to call me Grey. After all, Miss Whitcomb’s gentleman friend has but one name, so it’s only fair—”
“I have more.” Jax’s voice sounded hard. Hard and ruthless and utterly un-Jax-like. Amanusa whipped her eyes in his direction to stare.
“I have a complete set of names.” His eyes glittered and his sharp cheekbones seemed somehow sharper, his jaw more angular. His mouth had changed too, become firmer, hard in some way, though his lips were still as full and soft-looking as when he’d kissed her. “I am John Christian Alvanleigh Greyson, fourth earl of Leaford.”
“Jax?” Amanusa tightened trembling fingers together. He was an earl? And she was the daughter of a valet and a parlor maid. No wonder he argued against marrying her.
“Th’ Devil Earl ‘imself—” Harry Tomlinson whispered.
Grey Carteret burst out laughing. Everyone glared at him. Save for Jax, who stared straight ahead at nothing, as if glaring were beneath his dignity. As if everything were beneath his dignity, including the company. Especially Amanusa, who sat directly across from him.
Amanusa straightened in the seat and Jax—the earl of Leaford—shot her an anguished glance, there and gone again when he went back to his staring over her head.
“Oh, Uncle George will be apoplectic,” Grey wheezed, wiping his streaming eyes. “He’s twelfth earl of Leaford. Only he can’t be, can he, since the fourth one’s still alive. M’mother was a Greyson. Hence the name: Greyson Carteret.” He gestured at himself, as if introducing himself afresh. Perhaps he was.
“So, Uncle Jax—” Grey grinned like a maniac at his newly discovered relation. “Obviously you didn’t make a deal with the devil…”
Jax blinked, then turned bleak
eyes on the conjurer. “No,” he said. “I made a deal with Yvaine, who was not the devil. But it still cost me everything I possessed.”
“Even your soul?” Elinor asked in the kind of fascinated horror that made people gather at train wrecks and house fires.
Jax’s eyes warmed, though Amanusa was sure she was the only one able to recognize it. “No, not my soul—though for a time I wondered. But my memories. I did not know any name other than Jax until a short time ago.”
He turned his hard look on Grey Carteret. “And you will not inform your uncle George, or anyone else, of who I am. I am no longer that man, have not been for centuries. I only wanted a name. My own name. There are any number of Greysons in the world. We do not have to be related.”
“Oh, but I like the idea,” Grey drawled. “Though I suppose if you insist on secrecy, you will have to be Cousin Jax, rather than Uncle, since Mama has all of her siblings numbered.”
“I could be Alvanleigh.” Jax raised an eyebrow as he considered.
Why did he want another name? Because Amanusa had claimed him as her fiance? Was this his way of trying to maneuver out of it? Or did he want a name to give her when they married? She was afraid to hope.
“Amanusa Alvanleigh,” she mused. “That is quite a mouthful. Amanusa Greyson is much simpler.”
“Then Greyson it shall have to be,” Grey Carteret said. “And you shall just have to put up with me as your shirttail relative.”
“Are you certain?” Jax looked at Amanusa, his old Jax-look back. Amanusa discovered that she’d rather liked the new Jax-look, and missed it now it was gone. He sat forward and slid his hand over hers and it was all right again.
“I am not at all certain I wish to put up with your relations.” Amanusa made her voice tart and teasing. “But since I have none at all to claim as my own, I suppose any family is better than none. We can always invite him to visit and smother him in his sleep if he proves too annoying.”
Grey burst out laughing. “Mama is always making that same threat. M’brothers just threaten to shoot me.”
“Too bad they never carried it out,” Harry grumbled.
