Caller of Lightning

by Eytan Kollin

  Peter stared through the entry with more than a fair amount of awe. “Will it take us after the Countess?”

  “Not sure,” she said, “but I think we have to go through it.”

  Peter nodded. He held out his arm, and she placed her hand upon it. They crossed the threshold of the Manydoor. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but the sensation that he felt when crossing through was no different than any other door.

  It was an oddity to feel—nothing.

  The world that greeted them on the other side of the door was a stark contrast to the refined lady’s dressing chamber they had left. They were in a home that, while genteel, was decidedly not royal. It was a simple hallway.

  “This,” said Polly, “is not what I expected. Not at all.”

  “No,” said Peter grimly. “But I suspect this is where the Lord needs us to be.”

  A glow coming from under the door caught her attention, and Polly pointed at it, then reached her hand out slowly toward the handle. There was a shriek on the other side.

  Polly closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then rushed in, Peter on her heels. The room on the other side of the door had been a study, or perhaps laboratory. Now it was a scorched wreck. Small fires still flickered in one corner on an empty plate, and a charred workbench next to a desk was now good for nothing more than kindling. The only undamaged thing on that side of the room was an oddly articulated brass arm with a myriad of lenses attached, clamped to the edge of the workbench.

  “Are you okay?” Peter had spotted, in the corner, two older women clutching each other. It appeared to be the home’s mistress and her house-slave. In front of them, a young girl had taken a defensive position with a fire iron. All three were focused at something across the room, where the wall had been destroyed. It appeared to have been blasted out into the street beyond.

  It was then that Peter realized he had run headlong into a bad situation. What the women were looking at with so much intensity was a scarred and burned man, who held flames in his palms without any apparent harm. Out in the street beyond him was a middle-aged man dressed as finely as any king—staring up at the sky—and the Countess of Yarmouth.

  Polly assessed the situation. It didn’t appear that the man with the flame hands had noticed her yet, but his gaze had instantly been drawn to Peter when he bolted across the room. She began working a calculation, sweat beading on her brow.

  He laughed, flicking fire at Peter with a gleefully shouted, “διαπυρόω!” Flame splashed against an invisible shield as Polly reacted. Behind him, on the street, the finely dressed man began making a massive swirling motion over his head, rotating his hands and arms in the biggest circle he could.

  “Every reaction . . . ” Polly made a series of gestures and the flames rebounded, leaping back towards the man. Thomas spun to the side to avoid it. Fog drifted down from the sky.

  “What’s taking so long, Thomas?” asked the man in the street as he walked back toward the workshop, leaving the Countess further down the street.

  “I’m just playing, Your Majesty.”

  Polly continued muttering to herself, putting up shields around the women. The “Your Majesty” was a surprise. She had thought that the King was much older, but she couldn’t really spare it much thought at the moment.

  King George walked around the edge of the destroyed wall from the street. “Thomas, leave them. We don’t have time for this—the ritual has begun. It will dispose of them. Get us to the Assembly Bell now.”

  The King turned his back to Thomas, clearly expecting his vassal to lead the way. Thomas stood, looking at the tableau of people before him. He had an odd expression on his face, a mix of hatred, anger, confusion, and vexation. He then turned to lead the King to his goal.

  Polly, thinking quickly, still hiding in the doorway, focused on his shoes and made a series of subtle gestures. They were just little beacon spells, but they were a tether, a connection. She kept at it, throwing tiny spells at all three of them as they strode away. None of them noticed the cantrips that she laid on their clothing.

  Once they were gone, Peter made his way over to the women.

  The girl holding the fireplace poker was younger, maybe fifteen or sixteen. She swung it before her wildly. “I don’t know who you are, but, be warned, I will clobber you if you come any closer.”

  Peter held up his hands, passing before the young woman. “My name is Peter. This is my friend Polly. We are here to help.”

  Polly turned around and, with a couple quick gestures, extinguished the flames.

  The girl lowered the poker, just a little, but kept it angled down in front of her. It was obvious she was wary still. “I’m Sally. This is my mother Deborah and our woman Jemima. Thank you for fending those people off.”

  Polly ignored them all, focusing on the fog that drifted in. She muttered to herself. It was oddly suspicious that the King’s trio would leave them alone instead of just killing them and moving on. Never let an enemy into the back ranks if you don’t have to. It had to be something to do with this fog.

  Peter paused. He looked around, taking note of the surroundings more carefully. His eye lingered on the framed editions of Poor Richard’s Almanack on the wall. “I’m sorry. Sally and Deborah Franklin?”

  Polly really wanted to be a part of the conversation, but the feeling of dread only grew. She began recasting the shields, strengthening them. It was amazing how much magic she could use with the comet overhead. She had never been able to do this before. Nodding to herself, satisfied she had laid every defense musterable for both body and mind to protect each of them, she dusted off her hands.

  Debby Franklin recovered herself and, with Jemima’s help, stood to greet her guests, all the while favoring her left side—something was painful enough that she grunted as she stood. “My name is Mrs. Deborah Franklin. How may I address you, sir?”

  Peter stepped forward, hand extended, “Mrs. Franklin,” he began, but Debby took a step back with as much dignity as she could muster.

  “Your full name, sirrah,” Debby insisted.

  “I am Peter Collinson, long-time correspondent with your husband, Benjamin. I know we haven’t met, but he has written of you and spoken of you both enough,” he added, indicating Sally, “that I feel I know you. This is Miss Polly Stevenson, daughter of your husband’s landlady.”

  Sally dropped the fire iron and sprang forward, fiercely embracing Polly. “My adopted sister from London! Thank you so much for all the books you’ve sent. Was that you that protected us from the fire that man sent towards us? Are you both able to do magic like Father? Where did you come from? How did you know we needed help?”

  Peter’s jaw dropped, remembering several times he had been the focus of Polly’s rapid questions; and here Sally was doing the same thing. When Ben had mentioned that Polly reminded him of young Sally, it had been no joke. It would be easy to believe the two were related.

  While Peter felt nothing but warmth and surprised joy, Jemima watched quietly. Nothing tonight smelled right, and she’d spent a lifetime learning to step the other way whenever trouble came a-knocking.

  Debby set her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “Enough, Sally. Let them answer the first question before asking another twenty.”

  Polly looked at them both. “I am able to cast magic, but Mr. Collinson is not. We can’t tarry here. We need to go to wherever the King and the Countess were going. We must stop them. This fog he has called down is only growing worse, and the beacons I laid on them are fading fast. I fear I won’t be able to track them.”

  Peter held up a finger. “They talked about an ‘Assembly Bell.’ Where would that be?”

  Debby looked at the two strangers who had just walked out of thin air and saved them. “I am pleased to meet you both. Ben has mentioned you in his letters, and I am sorry to meet you under such circumstances, but this is all a little much. The Assembly Bell is in the yard next to the Assembly Hall, waiting to be hung into place in th
e bell tower.”

  Peter nodded, “Indeed, I am sorry as well. We are in rather a hurry, though. How do we get to this Assembly Hall?”

  Debby shook her head. “I really don’t know how to explain it, since you aren’t familiar with the area. The streets are a little confusing to navigate, even though it is only a few moments’ walk. I would take you myself, or send Jemima, but we are somewhat injured. It will be slow.”

  “I’ll take them,” Sally piped up immediately.

  “Oh, my dearest, that wouldn’t be safe.” Concern was plainly written on Debby’s face.

  “But I can do this, just like Father!” Sally held up her hands and showed electricity passing between her fingers. “I’ve been practicing in secret, every night since Father departed, on the Assembly lawn. I can use the Bell just like he did. Oh, oh! I can do other things, just like in the adventures I read! Mouser, kitty, kitty, kitty. Watch this!” Sally’s lips slid into a wicked grin.

  The gray and black cat darted out of the darkness around them and ran straight to Sally. As she gave him pets, electricity crackling from her fingers, he rubbed up against her ankles. “I thought of this when I was rereading Gulliver’s Travels. At least I think this will work.” Sally whispered a string of words and focused as the cat headbutted her calf, purring nonstop. He began to grow.

  Fur stretched across bubbling skin as the cat simply . . . changed. His claws stretched out, hooking into the floor, digging into the wood and tearing up splinters. His tail flicked, slowly lengthening. Purring grew louder and louder till it could be heard as a soft rumbling across the room. By the time he yawned, laying back to start grooming his hind leg, he was the size of a large hound.

  The assembled adults stared in shock, though Polly watched Sally rather than Mouser. The surge of power had been strong . . .

  Sally said proudly to her mother, “Mouser can protect me. I know it! Let me show them the way.”

  Debby blinked mutely. “Sally . . . ”

  Polly grinned. “Your father said I reminded him of you. Now I see it.” She calmly started laying protection spells on the cat too.

  Peter looked to Debby. “I fear we must go. I would say I would look out for your daughter, but I have a feeling it may be the other way around. Have we your permission?”

  Debby nodded and pointed out into the night. “Go. Stop them.”

  St. James's Palace

  London, England

  &

  The Dressing Room

  Philadelphia

  40

  I'm Sure I Don't Know

  What You Mean

  “Look, King,” Peter implored the former Franklin slave. “I know you weren’t much happy with the Franklins, but we have a need to get after King George, and we know there is a door such as this there.”

  King shook his head. “I do not disbelieve the difficulties to come. I have a certainty about them of my own. I just know it is not for me to aid you at this time. The Widow Eversleigh and I will be taking William through the door back to her home. In the coming conflict there may be a way to save him, and that is my duty—that is our duty. Our call. You must follow yours. I don’t know whether you open the door to heaven or hell, but it’s your door, not mine.”

  Peter stepped up to King and put a hand on his shoulder. “Please. Don’t turn your back on Mr. Ben.”

  King’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. “You think this is me turning my back? Taking that one, after the way he treated me, and trying to save him. This is me not turning my back.”

  “Be that as it may, we’re out of time. It’s you or none after King George, dearies.” Mrs. Eversleigh sadly shook her head. King hefted the still form of William onto his shoulders, activated the Manydoor, and they left Ben and Peter alone in the King’s Presence Chamber in St. James’s Palace.

  King looked back as the portal was about to shut. “Trust in God. And remember, he helps those that help themselves.” He pulled the portal closed.

  “Do we walk, then, Mr. Franklin?” Peter asked.

  Ben sat down on the marble floor and leaned back against the gilded wall. “Please, call me Ben.” He draped his arms over his knees and leaned his head back against the wall. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry to have been such an ass.”

  Peter sat next to him. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’ve dragged everyone into this insanity. The King, the King—our monarch, just attacked us with magic. I’ve gotten William killed, but for the grace of God and the work of King will say if he is to survive. But for you and King, I would be dead too. I don’t even know what has become of our compatriots.”

  “I think you are being too hard on yourself. We are all just trying to stop a lot of people from getting hurt.”

  “No. It’s more than that. We are all at risk. Live together, die together, right? One thing weighs heavily, though, on my mind. It is past time I recognized your contributions to the family. Sometimes it is easier to go with the way of the crowd than to consider the details of that behavior. You deserve your freedom as soon as I can legally provide it.”

  Peter’s eyes welled up, but he kept his distance. “And the missus?”

  Ben nodded, “Of course, her too. I should have died back there, and your freedom is bequeathed. Only seems fair.”

  Peter looked at Ben in perfect stillness for a moment, then cautiously offered, “If that be the case, I would like to be freed of the name I was given as a slave and use the name my grandmother, my iya agba, called me—Mobo.”

  “I will do my best. Come now, Mobo. Help an old man up?”

  Mobo laughed as he stood, reaching down. “I’m as old as you are, Mist—Ben.”

  “Yes, well, I’m fat.” Ben arched an eyebrow.

  “Come, let us inspect this door the King went through.”

  Examining the door turned out to be fruitless, but before they could revise their plans, the door burst into light, glowing white, and flew open. Ben tapped his cane twice against the ground. “Well then. It seems we have an invitation. Shall we march off to our deaths like young soldiers answering the call to war?”

  Mobo nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

  They crossed the threshold of inky black, stepping through the tight beams of blue light, and found themselves in a closet. It was the changing room of a woman of some modest means—the apparel was by no means wealthy or opulent. Ben looked around, startled. “This is not the Tower of London. Did we land in the closet of the Widow Eversleigh?”

  Mobo held a finger to his lips, silencing Ben. “We must be quiet.”

  “Agreed,” Ben whispered as silently he could. “Do you hear someone coming?”

  Mobo looked around, nodding slowly. The door opened behind them.

  The two men turned, ready for anything.

  A woman walked through. “By all that’s holy, Benjamin Franklin! And Peter!”

  “Jane?” Ben stared in shock.

  Mobo ducked a quick respectful bow of the head. “A pleasure, Mrs. Loxley.”

  Jane looked them both up and down. “I heard the door open. Of all the people it could have been . . . I didn’t expect it to be either of the two of you. And from the looks on your faces, I presume this was not where you expected to be. Where is the Lord Magician?”

  Ben narrowed his eyes. “You seem less than surprised that we are here. Or rather, that someone is here. Just what part has your hand guided in this, Mrs. Loxley?”

  She tilted her head to the side and bit her lip, thinking. “Let it be enough to say that you are not who I expected, but that I do know who the enemy is.”

  Mobo’s gaze darted between the two.

  “Who is the enemy, pray? And who do you side with? There are either things you have been hiding from me, and lying to me about, for years—or things have vastly changed here in Philadelphia, and no one has informed me.”

  “Benjamin Franklin. Why can it not be both?” Her lip twitched. “I work for Lord One and know
that King George plans to kill half of everyone to try to become an immortal wizard. Is that plain enough?”

  Ben thumped his cane once into the floor, hard. “Do you know how many headaches you could have spared me if you had just told me that seven years ago?”

  “You assume too much.” She gave no ground. “You had to learn it yourself to get here, I suspect. Besides, I’ve only put together the pieces myself as this whole thing has unfolded. The whole world does not actually revolve around you, Mr. Franklin, much as it may seem to some days.”

  “I suppose you are correct . . . ”

  Mobo coughed into a closed fist, “Mrs. Loxley, Mr. Ben, as good as it is to see you again, and for us to all see each other and catch up on everything—we have no time to tarry. The King and Thomas Penn will be seeking the Assembly Bell. We have to get there quickly. We have to stop them.”

  Jane seemed a little startled to be addressed so by a slave, but she smiled gently. “You are right, Peter. It is good to know you are both on the side of the angels in this. Let’s see what we can do about getting us all to the Assembly Hall.”

  Ben started, “Oh, and Jane, I should say, I have freed the slave you knew as Peter. He is choosing to use a different name: Mobo.”

  Jane nodded. “Mobo, I am so glad for you.”

  Benjamin Loxley walked in behind his wife. “I heard that last bit there. Congratulations on your freedom, Mobo. Was that you that thumped the ceiling, Ben? It sounded like a stick or a cane.”

  “Benjamin! It was indeed.”

  “Let me be the first to welcome you back to Philadelphia, Ben. May I also be the first to welcome you to step out of my wife’s dressing room and into a more proper environment?”

  Ben flushed in embarrassment. “How did you come to be a part of this?”

  “When you left for England, Jane started sharing with me. It was quite a shock at first, but I am ready to be a companion in arms.” Benjamin Loxley kept on talking as they moved downstairs, not missing a beat. “The Loxley pen is at your service, sir.”