by H. G. Parry
“Fortunately,” he said with a smile, “that, too, is my worry and not yours.”
“Do you think it’s right,” Grenville said, out of the blue, “to conduct all our war meetings as late at night and as drunk as we do?”
“I absolutely refuse,” Pitt said, “to worry about that.”
The Allies moved on France in a swarm from all sides. Spanish armies moved on the Pyrenees; Sardinia swarmed across the Alps. The Austrian forces moved deeper and deeper in Valenciennes. Meanwhile, the British naval barricade moved to starve France into submission, while its agents worked within its borders to fan the flames against the Republic of Magicians.
Pitt lived in a daily cloud of dispatches and daemon-stones, all relating to the movements of troops and ships thousands of miles away. He worked with Grenville to find and support pockets of resistance within France, in the hope that this might give them a foothold in French territory. He worked with his brother to organize naval operations. He and Dundas schemed later and later into the night. As the months went by, it became normal to be constantly behind on work, correspondence, rest. His magic began to stir in his blood, trying to help him through the parade of meetings and parliamentary sessions. By the end of most nights, his head throbbed, his stomach spasmed painfully, and London’s bloodlines were a dizzy swirl in his senses; by morning, either elixir or sleep had done its job, and he felt better, or close enough. He didn’t mention this to anyone; it felt ridiculous to talk about being overworked when the work in question sent men to death and agony. Instead, he found himself telling half his cabinet to send him their work because he was relatively unoccupied. He had no idea why he always did this, or why everyone always seemed to believe him.
“It’s very simple, actually,” Wilberforce told him one afternoon as they walked through St. James’s Park. “You think that if you have too many things to do, everyone else must as well, and they’re probably not doing them correctly.”
“That can’t be it,” Pitt objected, with the uncomfortable feeling that it might be at least part of it. “I wouldn’t put people in office in whom I didn’t have confidence.”
“Perhaps. But you have still more confidence in yourself.” He laughed at Pitt’s expression. “Well then, if you don’t like that hypothesis, try this one: when the government is suffering, you don’t feel right if you’re not suffering more than anybody.”
“But I’m not suffering. I’m working. I’ve never suffered in my life. Oh well, never mind,” he added quickly, before Wilberforce could reply. “It should all be over in a few months.”
“Are you truly confident about that?” Wilberforce asked, more soberly. “Or is that something you’re trying to convince the House?”
“Truly—I wouldn’t go anything like that far in the House of Commoners. But to you, in private: wars are a matter of resources. France is expending theirs faster than they can sustain. We can calculate almost to the day when they will need to give in and negotiate.”
“I’m not sure war works quite that logically,” Wilberforce said. “I don’t recall Achilles or Priam having a chancellor of the exchequer to advise them on finances.”
“I daresay someone was giving them some thought,” Pitt said dryly. “It’s just not good manners to mention them in an epic.”
Wilberforce smiled, then hesitated. “Dundas told me you’d agreed to send the navy to capture Saint-Domingue after all. Is it true?”
“Yes, it’s true.” Pitt said it as neutrally as he could. “For that very reason. When the planters asked for our help at first, the risks weren’t worth the reward. Now, if we can take that colony from France, we can increase our revenue and diminish theirs at the same time. The war could end even faster.”
“But the French don’t hold Saint-Domingue. The rebel armies do—at least part of it. And Britain still upholds slavery. If we take the colony, Saint-Domingue will be back where it began, and no hope of anything good will ever come from that rebellion.”
“I’ll worry about that once the war is over, I promise. For now, the priority is to force France’s surrender as quickly as possible. The longer this war goes on, the more difficult it is to keep the magic all on one side.”
Wilberforce was clearly not convinced, but he let it pass. “Well,” he said, “let’s just hope France is working from the same balance sheet as you. And that you don’t start to suffer. I wanted to tell you that I received a letter from Holt today—my friend in the Temple Church. He’s finally found a record of the last known vampires in France. He was right—they are rather a way back. In fact, all he has is the complete list of every blood magician killed in the Vampire Wars.”
“Good God. That sounds like long and gruesome reading.”
“It is, rather. The rest of the records pertaining to France burned with the Bastille. I did think, though, that it might be worth searching for records of anyone surviving descended from those families. It’s unlikely to be profitable, I know, particularly since we’ll only have access to British records given events overseas. But…”
“It’s certainly worth attempting. I just don’t know when either of us will find the time.”
“Fortunately,” Wilberforce said, “I happen to be living in the midst of some of the cleverest and most hardworking people in the country, present company excepted of course, and they are all very good at research. If I give them several names each, they’ll find time to look.”
“What will you tell them?”
“That I want to investigate the possibility there was a vampire in Europe involved in the Saint-Domingue uprising, which is perfectly true. They already know Clarkson was approached by someone claiming to be a blood magician on the night the Bastille fell. We don’t have any secrets from each other.” He glanced at Pitt. “Except for yours, of course. That one isn’t mine to share.”
“Thank you. I do mean that.” The wind gusted past them, dusted with a light speckle of rain. Wilberforce shivered a little but ignored it dutifully. Pitt knew very well that they were outside because he hadn’t left London for far too long, and the park was the closest there was to trees and grass, and he was grateful for that as well. “Let me know if you discover anything.”
He had to leave after that. Grenville had received word about a counterrevolution in Toulon, on the French coast, and they needed to investigate the hope of sending soldiers to help them take the port.
That night, Robespierre met his benefactor in the garden. He had thought the meetings would become more pleasant now that he had done what his benefactor wanted and killed the king. It didn’t seem to work that way. The skies glowed with red light, and the wind that cut through the grass was ice-cold.
“The war isn’t going well,” Robespierre said. It was something he would never have said in the Convention, but it was true. “I know it was inevitable that England would rise against us if we didn’t rise against them first. But bringing them into the conflict might destroy us. We barely have control of our own country, and there are too many against us.”
“Not if you do what I ask of you.”
“I did what you asked of me. I killed the king. We broke free of the bracelets. We brought magic back to the battlefield.”
“You brought some magic back to the battle,” his benefactor corrected. “It’s a beginning. But you’re still holding back.”
Robespierre barely heard him. “I thought it would be different once we broke the Concord. I thought it would be like the fall of the Bastille, when Camille unleashed his power in broad daylight and the prison fell before our anger. It hasn’t worked that way.”
“You need more soldiers.”
“We’ve conscripted all the magical Commoners we can muster from the provinces. Hundreds of thousands of them are ready to be sent to the front. The problem is that they don’t want to go. They may desert before they—”
“I’m not talking about Commoner magicians. Commoner magicians are well enough, but they’re not yet skilled, and your generals aren�
�t clever enough about how to use them.”
“I don’t understand,” said Robespierre.
“Yes, you do.” His benefactor sighed. It was difficult to tell, when his face was always in shadow, but Robespierre thought he’d been sounding tired lately. If so, he wasn’t alone. “I wish you wouldn’t lie to yourself. It’s so time-consuming.”
“I’m not lying. You said it was impossible to lie in here.”
“To me. You can still lie to yourself in your own head. You know what I need of you. It’s why I chose you. Surely you haven’t forgotten. That night, before the Estates General. Before any of this.”
Robespierre shivered. “Of course I remember that night. But what good would that do now? One undead? I don’t even know what you did with the first one—”
“Not one undead. Hundreds of undead. Thousands.”
“I don’t—”
“Stop it.” The voice was uncharacteristically sharp. “I told you I chose you for your necromancy, did I not? This is what I chose you for. I want you to create an army of the dead.”
For a long, long time, Robespierre did not speak.
“It’s what will save us,” his benefactor said. “You know it’s true. An army with the strength of men but the invulnerability of shadows, who cannot be killed, and yet who can kill with the precision of the most skilled human soldiers. A single undead, properly commanded and armored, could destroy hundreds of enemy soldiers on its own—thousands. An army…”
“There hasn’t been an army of the dead for hundreds of years,” Robespierre said hoarsely. His chest hurt. “Not since—”
“Since the Vampire Wars. Since the Concord was formed, and dark magic was outlawed, and necromancy—and vampirism—became punishable by death. What do you think breaking the Concord was ever about?”
“I thought it was—it is about freedom of magic.”
“This is freedom of magic. This is what a war of magic looks like. Robespierre, you talk about Camille’s magic, that day at the Bastille. You talk about how beautiful it was. You need to understand the beauty of your own. You’re far more powerful than him. Your magic burns in the dark, glorious and cold. This is your birthright.”
“You helped me hide that birthright. When I did what I did for you that night, you told me that nobody looking for a necromancer would find me. You said you had removed my mother’s arrest from the Templar records, and none of the Templars who had been involved were still alive.”
“You were a petty lawyer in the provinces then. The Knights Templar still held power in France. Things have changed.”
“And where would we get the dead? For them to be suitable, they’d have to have died in a particular way…”
His benefactor looked at him. “You know where.”
And he did. The worst part was, he did. “I won’t do it,” he said flatly. “Not that.”
“And why not that? Why not, after so much?”
“I am not your pawn!” The flare of temper was a relief; it burned his fear away. “I don’t serve you. I serve the people of France.”
“You served me in Arras, before you were appointed to the Third Estate. You served me because you needed my help, if you were to ever be in a position to serve France. In return, I gave you your mesmerism. I gave you your position. I gave you your Republic.”
“And I don’t regret it. But what I did that night—it was evil. I felt it. I won’t do it again.”
“Positions change very quickly these days, Maximilien Robespierre. It would be a simple matter to shift yours.”
The words came with a stab of pain behind his eyes. It threatened to bring him to his knees; Robespierre gasped and staggered. He didn’t know whether it had been accidental or on purpose.
“Do it,” he said through gritted teeth. “If you want to. But you didn’t before, when I defied you for so many months. When I refused to kill the king. I think you need me where I am now.”
“I do. But I needed you for precisely this. I raised you to power, I helped you break the Concord, specifically so that you would be in a position to give France the army it needs. From now on, you’re useless to me without it.”
“I don’t think I am. I think that whatever you are, you care for France as much as I do, and you know I can bring her to greatness, army of the dead or not. I am willing to take the chance that I am wrong.”
“Are you, indeed?” his benefactor said. “Because you are wrong. And I am not willing to take that chance.”
There was enough threat that Robespierre’s confidence flickered. And yet if he gave in on a principle because he was afraid, then what was he? “I killed the king,” he said again. “Because you asked me. I raised a republic in his place. Surely that’s enough.”
“It’s not why I chose you. I could have used any half-decent mesmer to accomplish that. I needed a necromancer. I need an army of the dead.”
“I won’t give you one. Besides—” He broke off, but his benefactor heard his hesitation. He pounced at once.
“Yes?”
“The Girondins would never allow it,” Robespierre said. “I don’t mean that I don’t have moral objections myself—I do. But if I put forward that proposal—they’d never allow that kind of dark magic. They’re still trying to reverse the breaking of the Concord.”
“You have power enough in the Convention to overcome their objections. Particularly if Danton supports you, and I suspect he will. And I can help you.”
“I can’t mesmerize half the Convention—not on something like this. I think they’re beginning to suspect me as it is.”
“Mesmerism isn’t illegal anymore.”
“But I’ve been using my magic on the Assembly and on the Convention for years, in secret. I’ve been using it on the crowds. I’ve even used it in the Jacobins at times. It doesn’t matter what’s legal or illegal—they won’t stand for that. It will invalidate everything I’ve ever done for the Republic—all the principles I’ve tried to instill in it, all its virtues, all its achievements. They’ll kill me as a traitor to France. They want me dead already.”
“You really are afraid of them, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid of everyone. If you seek to shame me with that, you won’t succeed. There are plots and conspiracies everywhere these days. It’s only by being afraid that we’ll save the Republic.”
“Very well.” His benefactor was not angry anymore. The stabbing pain in Robespierre’s head had dissolved. It left him sick and short of breath. “The Girondins are your enemies. They would prevent you from bringing dark magic back into the world. They would kill you, if they could. I accept this. So if we were to deal with them—”
“Could we?” Robespierre asked. He felt, unexpectedly, a rising hope.
“Of course. I should have thought of it sooner. You need greater power in the Convention: removing the Girondins will leave the Convention solely in the hands of the Mountain. It will keep you safe. And it will leave the path free for us to fight the war in our own way.”
“I don’t promise to give you an army of the dead,” Robespierre said quickly. “I’ll champion the cause of free magic, of course. But I don’t promise that.”
“Breathe, for heaven’s sake,” sighed his benefactor. “You get so agitated. You won’t create an army of the dead. But you want me to help you destroy your political enemies?”
“They’re the enemies of France as well.” In the last few weeks, he had developed a nervous twitch in his left eye; it was spasming now, painfully and distractingly. It seemed unfair, when this wasn’t even his physical body. “They’re hampering the war effort—after starting the war in the first place. If we can just start to turn the tide of public opinion against them…”
There was a pause, and when the voice came again, it was tinged with something not unlike amusement. “Very well, Robespierre. I can afford to wait a little longer. We’ll play it your way for now. Enjoy your revolution.”
Robespierre woke, with heavy eyes and aching head
, to a pounding at the door. The Commoner magicians outside of Paris had risen against the new conscription laws, and the rioting was raging out of control. Civil war had broken out in the provinces.
The Revolution was not going well either.
Thousands of miles across the ocean, Fina woke too. It was still dark in the West Indies; her eyes met only the dark sky above her head. But for a moment, she had been in a garden, listening to the voices of two men. They had spoken a language she didn’t understand, and yet the meaning was clear—as it had been almost two years ago, when that same voice had called out to the enslaved men and women of Saint-Domingue and urged them to take revenge. Her magic curled inside her, fragile and strange. She lay awake a long time.
Paris
June 1793
By summer, the Allied powers were beginning to encroach on the French border. The regiments of French magicians, inexperienced in the use of the power suddenly at their fingertips, tended to fire useless magic in a panic while the generals barked commands. Many of the soldiers were conscripted, disillusioned, and fed up with the promise of liberty, which had amounted to worse than the oppression of the old regime. Many of the provinces, including the major ports, were outright royalist and were more than willing to accept the support of the Allies to help take back France. They refused to use magic, in solidarity with the Templars and their allies, but there were other ways to kill.
In Paris, by contrast, war fervor ran high. Dissatisfaction centered instead around the Girondins, who were coming to be seen in the same light as royalists and anti-magic sympathizers. In light of the revolts in the provinces, Robespierre found himself forced to call for more and more arrests of Aristocrats, and tighter and stricter controls against the counterrevolution. The Girondins preached moderation and a reduced use of magic. It didn’t take much mesmerism, as it turned out, for Robespierre to have the people jeering at them in the street. The pamphleteers were quick to leap on the public mood: Camille first, with his playful, savage, classical allusion; then Hébert, with his coarse humor pitched at the barely literate. Marat joined in, and the people swarmed. It was almost frightening how fast the flame took and how bright it burned. He wondered, not for the first time, what other powers his benefactor had besides that which he shared with Robespierre. Surely his own mesmerism alone couldn’t have accomplished so much.
