A Radical Act of Free Magic

by H. G. Parry

  He almost faltered when his time came at last to speak. He knew that speaking against the bill would look very like siding with the opposition, even if he did it carefully. It would be easiest to stay silent. The bill was going to pass with or without his support—he could feel it in the chime of the walls, in the voice of the crowd, in the atmosphere of the House. And he hadn’t been dishonest when he’d told Clarkson he could see some degree of sense in the Forester bracelets. Now that Pitt had spoken, as usual, he could see it even more clearly. Perhaps they really were kinder.

  But if so, it was the kindness that came with shooting a wounded animal rather than allowing it to struggle on, the kindness that meant there was no hope left and all that was left to do was make the death of hope easier to bear. It was what was left to do when nothing else would make any difference.

  I’ve never made a difference, Barbara had said the first time they had met. I only have to try to work out what the right thing to do is, and then try to do it.

  That had illuminated something for him then, and he clung to it now. Because if it became about doing the right thing, and about nothing else, then it was really very simple.

  He thought of the children and young women he had seen at Miss More’s school, learning magic from symbols on a board, looking longingly at the metal encircling their wrists. He thought of the day, not too far away, when he and Barbara would take their own child to the Temple Church and hear that child scream as the blood was drawn to test for illegal magic.

  It would be such a relief to give up hope. But it wouldn’t be right. And if it wasn’t right, then it couldn’t ever really be kind.

  “I agree with Mr. Fox that this bill is in danger of destroying liberties rather than protecting them,” he said, as clearly and firmly as he could. “I hope it will not be passed. I fear that it will be, because the times we live in are dark, and I can see our laws every day becoming the same.” He raised his voice over the murmur of the House. “But if the bill is to be passed, I propose that the bill be passed conditionally, to be revisited when peace with France is reached. If this is indeed a measure occasioned only by the war, then when we are no longer at war, we need to be able to easily return to the way things were before, if such a return seems right and warranted.”

  He did not meet Pitt’s eye as he sat down, so he had no idea if Pitt had met his.

  The measure passed with Wilberforce’s amendment, to an overwhelming majority.

  When he had stood against Pitt on the night the Concord had broken, Wilberforce had gone immediately to Downing Street to try to set things right. He had wondered at the time if this hadn’t been pushing things too far, too fast, but the thought of long hours of suspense had been unbearable. It was the way his own temper worked when he’d had a dispute with a friend: anger burned swiftly, then gave way to guilt and resentment, and it needed to be cleansed at once before it festered into something darker and more poisonous. It was only after this had failed so spectacularly in Pitt’s case that he had realized that in all their long years of friendship, the two of them had never before had a serious disagreement. He knew a great deal about how Pitt’s mind worked, but he had known nothing at all about his temper. Until that night, he had never seen any evidence that Pitt had a temper at all.

  This time, he knew better. He went home after the vote, tried to sleep, and waited until the sun was once more high in the sky before he paid a visit to Downing Street. He came when the corridors of power were least likely to be busy, and he came in peace. When he was shown up, he entered Pitt’s office with as much ease as he had in the very early days of their friendship. The only difference was, this time it was at least half pretense.

  “Is this the way to the kitchens?” he asked. “I haven’t been here in a long time.”

  “I have no idea,” Pitt said, putting down his quill and rising to his feet. It was the first time they had spoken together in private for weeks—Pitt had declined his invitation to Wilberforce’s wedding due to a financial crisis in London. He looked much the same as he ever had, except that he always looked a little exhausted these days. His faint smile didn’t mean very much—Pitt was far better at hiding his emotions than Wilberforce—but it did mean that he was at least willing to pretend as well. “I see no point in learning my way around when they tell me I’m only holding this place for the next prime minister. I’m sorry you and your wife had to return early for the vote.”

  “We would have had to return in any case,” Wilberforce said. “Because of Eliot.”

  “Of course,” Pitt said, and for the first time they looked at each other with perfect understanding. Mutual loss was not the bond Wilberforce wished they had, but in that moment he was very glad he had come.

  “How are you?” Wilberforce asked, a little more tentatively than the polite commonplace would seem to require. “I spoke to George Rose downstairs; he thinks you haven’t been very well lately. He was concerned about you. He said you’d taken Eliot’s loss very hard.”

  “I did take it very hard.” There were many weaknesses Pitt preferred to politely deny. Grief had never been one of them. “But I’m well enough, thank you, under the circumstances. I don’t think there’s ever an easy way to take these things. I’m sure you feel the same.”

  “Yes,” Wilberforce said. He looked down, started to speak, then caught himself. Pitt raised his eyebrows inquiringly. “I was going to say I was very sorry about Eliot. I suppose I shouldn’t say that, exactly, because I know his mind and soul were exactly what I could have wished, had I known what awaited him. But I do miss him, exceedingly.”

  Pitt found something like a smile. “I do envy you your belief. I’m afraid I can’t be very comforted by the thought that people I love are in a better place. I’m willing to accept it in theory. In practice, I’d rather they were still here.”

  “I know,” Wilberforce sighed. “If I’m strictly honest, so would I.”

  He probably would have said more, or should have, but Pitt recognized the warning signs and cut him off. Even when they had been at their closest, they had never found common ground on religion. “Before Eliot’s death, I was going to write to tell you that peace talks had utterly broken down,” he said. “I assume you realized as much from the bill. I’m afraid it looks as though this war will continue for much longer.”

  Wilberforce nodded again. He had, of course, suspected, but his heart still sank.

  “We did everything we could,” Pitt said, a touch defensively. “I was prepared to stifle every feeling of pride to the utmost. But the kraken was too tempting to France. Once it had risen, there were no terms of peace to which they would agree that wouldn’t be more dangerous than war.”

  “I believe you,” Wilberforce assured him. “I know you wanted peace.” He paused. “I never replied to your letter in Bath, I’m sorry. But Bonaparte, and the kraken—do you truly believe the enemy was behind that?”

  “I do,” Pitt said. “Which means we may have had our first glimpse of the enemy in four years.”

  “Aside from Toussaint Louverture’s magic, of course.”

  “Yes, of course. But that seems to have been a matter of expedience—the enemy made that bargain with Louverture in order to escape the colony before our ships reached him. You’re going to have your way about Saint-Domingue, by the way. We plan to withdraw as soon as we can. We can’t afford the troops there, not with a kraken on the loose—and not when it’s so apparent we’ll never be able to take it. We’ve poured far too many lives and resources into it.”

  “I’m glad,” he said—honestly, but carefully. “I have to say, the only justification I saw for the whole venture was the opportunity to capture the enemy in person. As soon as it was clear he had left, we should have withdrawn at once.”

  “Well, we’ll do so now. And in the meantime, if Bonaparte is indeed the enemy’s new magician, I won’t make the mistake with him I made with Robespierre. The news over the daemon-stone is that Bonaparte is petitioning France for pe
rmission to move to Egypt. Now that we once again have a functioning navy, we may be able to intercept him by sea. With great luck we can capture him and use him to lead us to the enemy; even if we kill him outright, it may curb the enemy’s plans. The new Forester bracelets may be more temporary than we hope.”

  “Good.” Wilberforce hesitated. “About those bracelets…”

  “I understand,” Pitt said quickly. “You couldn’t support the bill as it stood. We don’t need to discuss it.”

  But he had come to discuss it—and what was more, he wanted to. “That bill is an abomination. You know it is.”

  “Is it?” He had expected Pitt to be at least annoyed at that. He seemed only mildly interested, and very tired. “It seems to me more of a compromise. We need to suppress illegal magic somehow, before we have a revolution on our hands.”

  “Not this way. It’s against everything you used to stand for.”

  “I stood for lessening the penalties for Commoner magic,” Pitt said. “This is one way of achieving that—perhaps the only way, in these times. It’s far better than classifying it as treason and making it punishable by death. Commoners needn’t be punished for magic if that magic is all but impossible.”

  “That sounds very much like what the anti-abolitionists said years ago, when we tried to outlaw spellbinding. It was kinder for those enslaved to be spellbound. They needn’t be punished for rebellion if rebellion is all but impossible.”

  Pitt frowned. “You can’t mean to suggest that spellbinding and the Forester bracelets are the same.”

  “Not in degree, of course not. But the principle is the same. If there’s discontent, if there’s rebellion, it isn’t enough to silence it. It’s a sign that something is very wrong, and we need to listen.”

  “Do you truly believe I don’t want to?” Now, at last, Pitt’s voice tightened. “Do you think this is how I want to lead a country? With one eye on threats beyond our borders, and the other constantly searching for threats from within and never sure if I’ve actually seen them? Whatever you might think of me these days, I’m not Robespierre. I don’t want a Reign of Terror. I know something is very wrong, and has been for years. But this isn’t the time to put it right. We’re at war. I’m doing all I can to protect this country without descending too far into tyranny, and this is the best I can do. I’m sorry if you feel you can’t support it.”

  “I can’t,” Wilberforce said flatly. “I know what you’re trying to do, believe me. But you know our work was not only about lessening penalties. It was about building a better world. It was about equality. If it’s safe for Aristocrats to have full possession of their magic, it must be safe for Commoners, whatever the times may be. And I see no reason why they should be denied the use of their God-given gifts.”

  “As someone with one of those God-given gifts, I can think of several reasons.” He caught himself, but not in time. Something had flashed behind his eyes, like a concealed blade.

  “I know you would choose to suppress your own magic if you could,” Wilberforce said. “I assume, by the way, these bracelets wouldn’t work for you?”

  “No, they wouldn’t,” Pitt said, with the calm that Wilberforce had long ago learned to recognize as deceptive. “Nobody has ever made a bracelet that is effective on blood magic, and Forester is no exception.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. His heart ached in sympathy. “But you must realize that most magicians might choose differently.”

  “I do realize that, and I wish they could be allowed to do so. Perhaps someday they will.” He shook his head in the way Wilberforce knew very well: the sharp, dismissive movement that implied a subject was closed. “Unfortunately, I can’t answer to my own desires alone. I have to answer to the king and Parliament and the Temple Church; I have to abide by the best interests of the country. It isn’t personal.”

  “All politics are personal. They have to be—we live in the world they shape. My wife and I might be having a child soon. There’s every chance that when our children are born, they might have magic in their blood. I don’t want them to grow up with one of those things around their wrists, and I don’t want them to grow up in fear.” He hesitated. “I saw in the papers a while ago that you were about to become engaged yourself.”

  “Yes, I imagine you did,” Pitt said calmly. “It was a quarter-page caricature; I’m sure many saw it. No, I am not about to become engaged. I severed ties with the Eden family some time ago.”

  “Might I ask why?”

  For a moment he thought Pitt would refuse to answer. “I decided the obstacles to it were insurmountable.”

  “One such obstacle being your Inheritance.”

  “Not that alone. But that was one such obstacle, yes. Does this have anything to do with the bill?”

  “Only that it makes my point. You don’t just fear magic in case of a revolution. You fear your own magic. You’re afraid of what you could become. This isn’t just a war between countries—it’s a war between you and the enemy. And I’m worried that the enemy can use that, just as he did on the night the Concord broke, to push you into becoming exactly what it is that you’re fighting.”

  Pitt’s voice hardened. “You have absolutely no idea of what it is that I’m fighting.” Unexpectedly, the air crackled with magic—the same charge that had been in the air the night everything had changed.

  This time, though, Pitt looked away before that magic could focus itself. Wilberforce saw him shiver once and draw a deep breath. His face was stark white.

  “Forgive me,” he said.

  Wilberforce nodded quietly. He was shaken too, despite himself. “It was my fault. I pushed that too far.”

  “You didn’t.” A flicker of pain crossed his face before he could smooth it away; he sat down, carefully, and Wilberforce sat with him. “I let myself be pushed. The army of the dead have taken Italy, we don’t have enough magicians to fight a war by land, I have to find money for the rebraceleting of half the country with more expensive alchemy, I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in months, and one of my oldest friends is dead. Apparently my patience has limits these days.”

  “And I think George Rose was right,” Wilberforce said. “You do look alarmingly pale.” He hesitated. “Is the elixir—?”

  “It’s still working as it should,” he interrupted. “At least, it’s working well enough. But please, if you don’t mind, let’s not fight over the Forester bracelets.”

  “I don’t want us to fight at all,” Wilberforce said. “Particularly not after— Well. Eliot wanted us to be friends again very badly.”

  “We are friends,” Pitt said. “At least, we are on my part.”

  “But not the way we were.”

  He looked away. “I don’t think anyone stays friends in the same way forever.”

  “I’m not sorry for opposing the breaking of the Concord. I’m not sorry for opposing the new bracelets either. But I am sorry it hurt you.”

  “I don’t expect you to be sorry for anything. Believe me, Wilberforce, this is absolutely no fault of yours.”

  “What isn’t? The new bill, or what’s happened to our friendship?”

  “Neither.” He sighed. “For whatever it may be worth, I agree with your amendment to the bill. I’m glad that the law is only going to be in effect while the country is at war—I hope, if we do indeed intercept Bonaparte, the country may not be at war for much longer. We can revisit the issue then. Can we agree on that, at least?”

  Wilberforce nodded. “Yes. We can agree on that. For now.”

  It was beginning to feel not enough on which to agree.

  It was possible, of course, that capturing Bonaparte might indeed curb the enemy, and thus the war. Wilberforce certainly hoped so. But in the meantime, the Knights Templar were moving to curb Commoner magic in England. And somehow he feared that might be far more difficult to undo than Pitt wanted to pretend.

  Saint-Domingue

  May 1798

  The British invasi
on of Saint-Domingue had failed.

  It was no longer a question of numbers or of strategy, though Toussaint’s forces had the advantage in both. The island itself was against them. The British troops died every day of fever; the British slaves deserted in droves to fight under Toussaint’s banner. They all knew that England had trespassed where it never should have been.

  In the spring, Thomas Maitland wrote to Toussaint to negotiate a complete withdrawal from Saint-Domingue. The young general had taken command of the British campaign only in March, but he had been urging a retreat for much longer. Fina accompanied Toussaint to the British encampment to meet with him, and she waited outside the tent with Toussaint’s escort as the two commanders talked within, her heart a riot of feelings. A year or so ago, she would have wanted far worse for the British than a forced withdrawal. She wanted them to feel what she and those like her had felt, conquered and dying far from home. She didn’t care about that anymore; these ones were only soldiers, when it came to it, and she had been in too many heads, and felt too much pain and fear, to want young foolish soldiers far from home to burn for the wrongs their country inflicted. She wanted them gone; that was all. And it looked, at last, as if they would be. The problem was what might happen next.

  She couldn’t speak with Toussaint privately until that night. He was dictating a letter to his scribe in his tent, informing the new French commissioner of what had been done. By the time she was allowed to enter, anticipation was a fever in her veins.

  “How were the negotiations?” she asked, as soon as the tent was closed behind them.

  “You know how they were,” Toussaint said with the crooked smile she knew very well. He looked more relaxed than she had seen him in a long time, but something lurked behind his eyes. There was always something behind everything Toussaint said and did. “You were there. Were you not?”