The Right Side of History (Schooled In Magic Book 22)

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  Emily snorted. “I was Head Girl, and I didn’t even last out the year,” she said. “I don’t think Gordian wants me anywhere near Whitehall.”

  “He did go to some trouble to ensure you weren’t allowed to cross the border,” Lady Barb agreed, mildly. “But with so many others on their way to the school, everyone from Lucknow to Void himself, he might find himself pushed into inviting you anyway.”

  Emily felt an odd little pang. “Are you going to go?”

  “Not yet,” Lady Barb said. “I need to check on Miles, then... well, we’ll see. Void was fairly sure you needed a bodyguard, though I don’t see it myself. You’re famous here.”

  “It isn’t me that’s famous,” Emily said. “It’s the version of me that lives in their heads.”

  She shook her head in annoyance. She’d seen the books and pamphlets in the marketplace. The writers - whoever they were - credited her with things she hadn’t done and sayings she hadn’t said. Their Emily was a confused mixture of George Washington, Frederick Douglass, Abraham Lincoln and Joan of Arc. She’d read a book that claimed she’d strangled Shadye with his own beard - Shadye hadn’t had a beard - and another that insisted she was the lost heir to the empire, hidden away by loyalists until her time. And yet another, she reflected with a certain amount of amusement, that insisted she was a commoner who’d been raised by a powerful magician. She had to admit that writer was surprisingly close to the truth.

  “So it seems,” Lady Barb said. She passed Emily a stack of letters. “Go read these in the bath, if you like. And then you can spend some time thinking about the future.”

  Emily thumbed her way down the letters. “Jan didn’t write,” she said. “Is he alright?”

  “I doubt it,” Lady Barb said, bluntly. “He betrayed his master. He’d be in deep shit even if he were wholly in the right.”

  “If I could do something...” Emily looked at her. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Right now, Master Lucknow has too many other problems,” Lady Barb said. “If you bring this to a successful conclusion, perhaps by convincing the two sides to come to terms, you’ll have enough clout to dicker with him. Until then...”

  Emily snorted. “And how am I supposed to accomplish the impossible?”

  “That’s why you were given the job,” Lady Barb reminded her. Her face darkened, perhaps remembering the other times Emily had done the impossible. “If you succeed, they win; if you fail, they win, too.”

  “Brilliant,” Emily said, sourly. She stood, muttering a charm to protect the letters from water. “Why don’t they care about the future?”

  “I imagine they care a great deal about the future,” Lady Barb said. “They just have conflicting visions of what the future should be.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  EMILY COULDN’T HELP FEELING A PANG of guilt as she stepped into the bathroom, muttered a spell to heat the water and undressed rapidly before climbing into the giant bathtub. There were no taps, not here. The maid had had to fill a couple of buckets with water, then carry them into the bathroom and pour them into the tub. There was a pipe for letting the water go, afterwards, but Emily wasn’t sure where it actually went. It wouldn’t surprise her if she discovered it merely poured the water onto the street below.

  They used to throw human waste out the window, she reminded herself. That practice, thankfully, had declined sharply over the last few years. She had a feeling she might have saved more lives by encouraging sanitation than anything else she’d introduced. What do they do with it now?

  She settled back in the water, allowing it to soak into her aching muscles, then summoned the letters with a wave of her hand and started to read. Alassa had written a detailed outline of everything that had gone into planning the conference, as well as an admission she’d be sending a representative rather than attending in person. Melissa had said much the same thing, suggesting they weren’t the only people with doubts about the conference. The letters spoke of confidence, but it was alarmingly clear that no one really expected the conference to solve anything. Frieda had written three letters in quick succession, the first reading rather oddly until Emily realized it had been written before she’d been arrested. The second letter promised bloody retribution on Master Lucknow and Gordian - Emily hoped the Grandmaster wasn’t reading the letters before they were sent out - while the third moaned about how the conference was interfering with her studies. She was meant to take her final exams at the end of the year, she reminded Emily, and it was starting to look as though she wouldn’t be able to properly prepare for them. Emily was inclined to agree. It might have been wiser to cancel the school year or hold the conference somewhere else.

  But there aren’t many places that would be considered remotely neutral, she mused, as she put the first set of letters to one side. Mountaintop or Stronghold would have the same problem.

  She scowled, then turned her attention to the next letter. Cat seemed torn between anger at her treatment - he offered her a safe refuge, if she needed to run - and annoyance that he and his followers hadn’t been invited to the conference. Emily was surprised. There was no disputing the simple fact Cat controlled a nexus point, ensuring his castle was effectively impregnable. And he wasn’t the only one trying to build a kingdom in the formerly Blighted Lands. They should all have been invited to the conference, at the very least. They’d certainly feel no obligation to honor any agreements made in their absence.

  Perhaps I should try to suggest Dater takes his loyalists into the Blighted Lands, she thought, snidely. That would give them lands of their own, if they want to work for them...

  She put the letters to one side and leaned back, allowing the water to soak into her aching muscles. It wasn’t going to happen. The aristocrats weren’t going to give up the lands their families had owned and ruled for generations, not for anything. They certainly weren’t going to move south, in hopes of founding new estates in the Blighted Lands. It would be decades, perhaps centuries, before the new communities and kingdoms flourished. And they’d have trouble recruiting settlers if they introduced serfdom. The aristocrats had to tie their serfs to the land because they were too miserly to pay what their serfs deserved.

  The heat made her yawn as she closed her eyes. She didn’t want to rest, not really, but... it was hard not to fall asleep. The water lapped at her naked body, splashing at her mouth. She kept her eyes closed until she heard a knock on the door. Her eyes snapped open. Who’d be disturbing her in the bath?

  Silent stepped into the room. “My Lady, Councilor Aiden is downstairs. He wishes the pleasure of your company.”

  Emily sighed. The water had cooled - perhaps she’d nodded off for longer than she’d thought - but it would be easy to reheat it. She could cast a spell... she sighed again, then stood and reached for a towel. Silent looked away, politely, as Emily wrapped the towel around herself, pulled the plug out of the tub and stepped onto the toweled floor. She didn’t really want to create more work for the maid.

  “Thank you for the bath,” she said, and meant it. “It was lovely.”

  Silent dropped a curtsey. “Thank you, My Lady.”

  “I left you alone with the prince,” Emily said. “Did he... did he behave himself?”

  “He was a perfect gentleman,” Silent said. “He spent most of the day in his room. I was able to get on with the cooking without interruption.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Emily said. “If it changes...”

  “I will inform you, My Lady,” Silent said. Her voice didn’t change. “My Lady... there is something I must bring to your attention.”

  Emily frowned. “What?”

  “I have been purchasing food every day since we arrived,” Silent told her. “The prices have been going up, day by day. Meat and bread, in particular, have been growing more and more expensive. And some items have proven impossible to source. Your dinners may suffer.”

  “I see,” Emily said, trying not to wince. The maid looked as if she expecte
d to be slapped. “It doesn’t matter. We can teleport food from Dragon’s Den if we have no other options.”

  She frowned as Silent dropped another curtsey, then withdrew. If Silent was having trouble finding food... Emily didn’t like the implications. The revolution had begun because of the price of bread, if the rebels were to be believed. Their government would have problems if it couldn’t bring in more food and stabilize the prices quickly, both of which might prove impossible. People would starve, even if the government implemented price controls. They’d never worked in the past and they wouldn’t work here. Farmers would simply refuse to sell their crops - or grow more - if they couldn’t be sure of a fair price.

  Let them eat cake, Emily thought. The hell of it was that it wasn’t that stupid a thing to say, from the point of view of a dim-witted aristocrat, but it hadn’t gone down very well with people who could no more afford cake than bread. And when the food runs out completely...

  She dressed rapidly, then checked the clock as she hurried down the stairs. It was nearly noon. She had slept in the bath... she smiled, then batted the thought aside as she saw Aiden waiting in the lobby. Silent stood beside her, looking shy. Emily wondered if Aiden had been trying to interview her maid. It wouldn’t have gotten her anywhere, but she might not have realized that.

  “Aiden,” she said. Even knowing that Aiden was female, it was very hard to see through the disguise. “Did the council write a response to the royalists?”

  “Not as yet,” Aiden said. “But I was wondering if you would like to take a stroll with me.”

  Emily nodded, pulled her cloak over her dress and allowed Aiden to lead the way onto the street. She certainly acted like a particularly courteous man, someone whose attitude was either welcoming or irritatingly condescending. The spies wouldn’t see anything odd about her attitude. Emily was tempted to let Aiden take her arm, just to keep up the pretense, but she’d never been comfortable allowing anyone that close to her. She needed to keep both her arms free.

  Aiden grinned as they walked down the street. “The council is still arguing,” she said. “They don’t need me right now.”

  “Ouch,” Emily said. “I thought they had decided what to do.”

  “They did,” Aiden said. “They know what they want to do. But they’re still arguing about how they should do it.”

  Emily glanced at her. “And you don’t need to be there?”

  “Jair says something. Storm says something else. Oskar says something else, too. Jair repeats his original point...” Aiden laughed. “It goes on and on and on, while time slips from our grasp like... a very slippery thing. They won’t even be able to shout DEATH TO ROYALIST SCUM in unison by the time this is over.”

  She grinned at Emily. “Althorn is very good at letting everyone have their say,” she said, wryly. “It’s important to get a wide range of opinions. But I think he overdoes it.”

  “It looks that way,” Emily agreed, neutrally. They stepped into the marketplace. “What are we doing here?”

  “I thought you could do with a walk,” Aiden said. “And I’m on the watch for stories.”

  Emily frowned. She wasn’t sure she believed that. Aiden was acting like a young man taking a girl out for the first time, yet... Emily was sure it was something more. She’d certainly done nothing to draw attention to them, let alone reveal her true identity to the crowd. Emily’s thoughts churned as they passed a row of carts, selling fruit and veggies. There were no marked prices, but - judging by how displeased the customers looked - it was clear the prices had been going up. Silent had said as much, Emily remembered. It was good to know the maid had been right.

  She felt her frown deepen as her eyes drifted over the stalls. Some of them were piled high with items stolen - liberated, perhaps - from wealthy households. She spotted a collection of older books that would have been worth thousands of crowns before the revolution. Now... the stallkeeper couldn’t so much as give them away. Emily was tempted to take them herself, although she knew they might be of little more than academic interest. Older books had always appealed to her. They certainly wouldn’t have been produced if someone didn’t see value in them.

  Aiden indicated a pile of paper certificates, lying on one of the stalls. “Last night, a loan shark’s house was invaded and the records of who owed what were seized. Most of them were burnt, but a handful remained to be put on sale. Apparently, the bastard was loaning money to a bunch of snooty toffs. Anyone who buys the paperwork would have a claim on the debt.”

  “Perhaps,” Emily said. She wasn’t so sure that would actually work. The new owner would have to prove the debt existed, then that they had a right to call it in. She was fairly sure the aristocracy would take advantage of the chaos to hide their debts, even those to the king. The records in the palace had been destroyed weeks ago. “I don’t know...”

  The air flashed with light. A hammer crashed into her wards. Emily stumbled back, knocking over Aiden as a thunderclap sent them both to the ground. She rolled over, hastily strengthening her wards. She’d been careful to weave some protection against physical attacks into her personal defenses - most sorcerers didn’t take them seriously until it was far too late - but they’d been pushed to the limits. Whatever had hit her... she swallowed, hard, as she pulled herself to her feet. Aiden had been lucky she’d been behind Emily. Emily’s wards had taken the brunt of the blast.

  She cursed under her breath as she realized she was wrong. The blast hadn’t been directed at her personally. The entire marketplace had been devastated. Stalls had been wrecked beyond repair, wares strewn in all directions; carts had been picked up and tossed across the street... she shuddered, helplessly, as she saw the wounded and dead on the ground. A steaming crater sat at the center of the destruction. She racked her brains in hopes of remembering what had been there, before the explosion. A cart... a covered cart, perhaps crammed with gunpowder. And someone had lit a match...

  Aiden stood, looking battered. Her little cloth cap was gone, lost somewhere in the devastation. Her hair was threatening to spill out of the net. Emily looked her up and down, checking for wounds. She looked stunned, but largely unhurt. They’d been lucky. The others had been caught in the open, unprotected by magic. Emily knew Master Lucknow wouldn’t approve if she helped, but... she didn’t give a damn. She wasn’t going to walk away, leaving the wounded and dying behind.

  “Get some chirurgeons out here,” Aiden shouted. Her voice sounded a little more high-pitched than usual. Emily hoped the listeners would take it for fright. “Hurry!”

  Emily stumbled forward and checked the first body. The woman - she couldn’t be more than a year or two older than Lady Barb - was beyond all help. The blast had driven a fragment of wood into her chest, killing her outright. Emily pushed the body aside and moved to the next victim. A young boy had a broken leg. She healed him quickly, then directed him to assist the others as more and more people arrived to help. Aiden took charge, snapping orders in a manner that was decidedly masculine. Emily reflected, rather sourly, that many of the onlookers would have ignored her if they’d known her gender.

  She knelt in front of a whimpering teenage girl and cursed under her breath as she realized the girl’s leg was beyond repair. A proper healer could have saved it or simply grown a new one, perhaps, but all she could do was stem the bleeding and hope the chirurgeons could fit her with a wooden replacement. It wouldn’t restore what she’d lost. Emily directed a pair of young men to carry the woman out of the blast zone, then turned to the next victim. She wished she’d spent more time learning to heal. Lady Barb...

  Emily kicked herself for forgetting Lady Barb. She caught a runner’s eye, ordered him to take a message to Lady Barb, then turned to the next victim. The man might have been lucky - he’d been sheltered from most of the blast - but he probably didn’t feel lucky. Splinters of wood had embedded themselves in his skin... Emily shuddered as she did what she could and then passed him to the chirurgeons. Things were getting more org
anized, she noted as she stepped through a pile of rotting fruit and mended a child’s arm. Dozens of rebel soldiers had arrived and were sweeping through the devastation, their enthusiasm making up for their lack of experience. Behind them, dozens of civilians were assisting with the wounded. She thought she saw Jair speak to a handful of others before the crowd swept him away. But she wasn’t sure.

  “The royalists did it.” The rumor spread through the crowd. She could practically see it rippling from person to person. By the end of the day, it would be all over the city and beyond. “They killed hundreds of people.”

  Emily sagged, feeling sweat trickling down her back as she forced herself to stand up. Her magic felt drained after healing so many people, but... there were always more. She tried not to collapse completely as she looked around, searching for Lady Barb. There was no sign of her. Men were cursing, promising to lynch Dater and every last damned aristocrat in the country; women were crying, some clutching children to their breasts as they stared at the rubble. They wouldn’t be strangers to violence, Emily reflected, but this was new. The wounded hadn’t been caught in the middle of a riot. They’d been blown up by a bomb deliberately placed to kill as many civilians as possible. She dreaded to think how many people might have been killed or wounded in a single, catastrophic second.

  Aiden stepped up beside her. “Are you alright?”

  “Just tired,” Emily admitted. Her head was starting to pound. She didn’t want to know, but she had to ask. “How many...?”

  “Dead?” Aiden glared at the smoking crater. “At least forty. Probably more. It would have been much more if you hadn’t helped.”

  “Yeah.” Emily couldn’t help noticing that Aiden’s shirt and trousers were stained with blood. She’d been helping the wounded to safety, despite the risk. The shirt, thankfully, was too loose to stick to her skin. “I just...”

  She took a breath, trying not to collapse. Healing wasn’t her greatest talent. The spells she’d used would mend some of the damage, but not all of it. Too many of the wounded, thrown on the mercy of the chirurgeons, would be crippled for life. She’d heard sarcastic jokes about chirurgeons being more murderous than a band of angry orcs, but she’d never seen the funny side. The chirurgeons simply didn’t have the knowledge or resources to do any more than the basics. And yet, they’d never admitted it. They’d fought a desperate rear-guard action to ensure they didn’t have to wash their hands before burying them in someone’s gut. Emily dreaded to think how many people had survived horrific wounds, only to die on a chirurgeon’s table.