A Radical Act of Free Magic

by H. G. Parry

  “I know.” Napoléon’s heart was still pounding, but it was beginning to settle. “Bastards.”

  He sent one of the escort back to the palace to see if Joséphine was safe—more than likely, he told himself, she hadn’t yet left the palace. Then he settled back in his seat.

  “Drive on,” he ordered.

  Lannes blinked. “You don’t want to return to the palace?”

  “Why on earth would I want to do that?” It was partly bravado, but only a small part. The attack was over. There had been no way of anticipating it, and it wasn’t his job to follow it up. It wasn’t the first time, after all. Just the most spectacular—and, if he was honest, the most uncomfortably close. “We were going to the opera.”

  His friend was waiting for him in the Corsica of his memories that night, for the first time in a very long while. Napoléon had been expecting him, impatient to close his eyes—he would have tried to nap at the opera if he hadn’t been so under scrutiny. The theatre had been abuzz with the news that there had been an attempt on the life of the First Consul.

  He didn’t waste time on greetings anymore. Neither of them had for a long time.

  “Was it the royalists or the Jacobins?” he asked.

  “Royalists,” his friend said promptly. “With the support of the British, I would imagine.”

  “I thought as much. But royalists usually refrain from using magic, especially less-than-traditional magic. They want to keep it the province of Aristocrats.”

  “Times are changing,” his friend said. “You’ll find that more and more use magic these days. We’re returning to the old days of magic, the great, violent days—or, I suppose, we’re entering a new age. It could go in either direction at this point. We need to make sure it goes in the right one.”

  Napoléon didn’t much care about old days of magic or new. It was too theoretical for him. He had more pressing concerns. “You usually tell me of attempts upon my life.”

  “This one was difficult. I can see everyone in French territories, but I can’t see them all at once.”

  “And the British?” Napoléon didn’t wait for an answer. “You can see into certain minds in Britain too, can’t you? You must, to be able to tell me some of the things you do.”

  “That isn’t your concern, and it was no real help here. I’ve seen them make contact with royalists on occasion, yes. But that didn’t give me the date and the time. And even I have to sleep sometimes.”

  “Are you not sleeping now?”

  “You are. I happen to be nightwalking.” He shook his head—a rare unconscious gesture. Whether it was intended to shake off guilt, concern, or even worry was more difficult to tell. “Do stop complaining. Robespierre would have loved an attempt like that. It would have made him feel nicely persecuted. Besides, assassination attempts are very useful. They give an excuse to blame and punish your rivals.”

  “I know that very well, and I intend to make use of it.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t blame the royalists, if I were you. Everybody hates them already. Let the extremist Jacobins take the blame; the milder Jacobins will be shocked by the violence and swayed back to your side.”

  “I don’t need political advice from you. Was that the reason you allowed it?”

  His friend’s voice was cool. “I never said I allowed it.”

  “It won’t happen again. You need me alive.” His anger was only part of what was driving his words now. It occurred to him that this was an opportunity for tactical advantage in more ways than one. For the first time, it seemed, his friend had been caught off guard. “More to the point, you need my cooperation. And if another attempt comes close to taking my life, you may find that a problem.”

  His friend blinked. A low, painful buzz began in Napoléon’s temples, like a tightening vise. Napoléon ignored it. If anything, it confirmed his suspicions. Cruelty was always a sign that someone was losing control.

  “Excuse me. Do you truly mean to threaten me?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “I think you overestimate your importance, Bonaparte. I raised you up. I could set another in your place.”

  “I don’t believe that was ever true,” Napoléon said. “But certainly it isn’t now. I spoke to my scholars about dragons, you know, after I got back to France. I may not be an ink-mage, but I have plenty who are loyal to me. You were telling me the truth: our dragon was interested in me because it detected your presence in my mind. But it bonded to me in person, not you. If you want my dragon to obey you, rather than me, you need to either go to Egypt yourself and take possession of it or find a way to bring it to your doorstep—wherever that may be. Until then, you need me to control it. There will be no invasion of England without me.”

  “Is this a challenge?”

  Part of him wished it could be. But he wasn’t ready for that yet. His own grasp on France was still too feeble.

  One day, though…

  “It’s a statement of fact,” he said instead. “We need one another. You’ve come too far to cast me aside now. It’s in our best interests to protect each other.”

  His friend gave him a very hard look. Then the buzz receded and he nodded. “I can accept that. But in return, I want something from you.”

  Napoléon was almost dizzy with the unexpected victory, but he had the sense to keep it from his voice. Instead, he forced himself to frown, to sound skeptical. “You’ve had a great deal from me.”

  “Consider this something for both of us. I didn’t come to call on you because of that half-baked attempt on your life, you know. I came because I need you to move against Saint-Domingue, now and in force.”

  His frown was real this time. Saint-Domingue had been a very long way from his mind. “I’ve told Louverture that I’m content to leave Saint-Domingue under his governorship, as long as he keeps it profitable for France.”

  “And yet you always knew you would need to take control and reinstate slavery there in the end.”

  “Of course. But this isn’t the time. We’re in the middle of a war.”

  “Never mind the war, for now. Saint-Domingue must be dealt with. Or, more precisely, Toussaint Louverture must be.”

  Napoléon thought out his next words carefully. He didn’t want to tell his friend that Joséphine was from the West Indies and she had urged him to keep Louverture in command. Louverture had protected her family’s interests in Saint-Domingue only a few years earlier; his two sons had dined with her on many occasions since coming to France. But his friend, Napoléon suspected, would think him foolish to be taking advice from a woman.

  Besides, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t had doubts himself. Word had reached Paris lately of the new constitution Louverture had drafted and signed. Among other things, it ensured the freedom of those who had been enslaved, and it appointed Louverture governor of Saint-Domingue for life. Neither of these things directly threatened French interests, but they were troubling.

  “Louverture has agreed to work with France,” he said instead. “As far as I can tell, he is somebody to keep an eye on, nothing more.”

  “He’s more than that,” his friend said. “He’s taken control of the entire colony. He plans to move on Jamaica.”

  “He’s taken the colony from Rigaud. It was an internal squabble—it’s still in French hands. And what do I care if he takes Jamaica, if he takes it on our behalf?”

  “I can’t explain—at least, I won’t. Just know that if he succeeds, many years of planning and working and magic will be undone. For that reason, you need to destroy him. And if that isn’t enough, then you need to destroy him because he is better than you.”

  Napoléon felt a shock of something sharp and caustic. It took him a moment to realize this was not merely surprise, but jealousy. “Better than me at what, precisely?”

  “I chose you because you were clever enough and strong enough to fight a war of magic without being yourself particularly magical. Louverture is cleverer and stronger. I made a very
rare mistake in not realizing it soon enough. And now you need to fix that mistake quickly. It may already be too late.”

  “Are you manipulating me?”

  “A little, perhaps. But I’m also telling the truth. If you want to maintain any kind of control in the West Indies, if you ever want to see Britain fall, you need to remove him.”

  Napoléon shook his head. “Then we’ll remove him, of course. But I can’t help feeling that you see war far too personally. This is not a battle of personalities. This is a clash of countries, of armies, of regimes.”

  “To you, I’m sure it is. I am a blood magician. To us, war is just an elaborate duel between others of our own kind, and it’s always personal.”

  “And how do you define your own kind? Other blood magicians?” He wondered, not for the first time, if any more had survived.

  “Not exclusively. By my own kind I mean those who matter.”

  “And how do you determine who matters?”

  “It used to be simple,” his friend said. “I admit, it’s becoming difficult to tell of late.”

  London

  January 1802

  The war was over.

  The rumor spread through London like mage-fire, whispering from person to person the way daemon-stones whispered to their magicians. Bonaparte had contacted Henry Addington, the new British prime minister, and he had offered once again to come to terms.

  It was confirmed soon at the highest levels of government: negotiations were indeed underway. The terms looked as though they would be favorable. In the meantime, for the first time in many long years, the fighting was to stop. Bonaparte, in a show of good faith, had recalled all but a few garrisons of the army of the dead. Addington saw no reason that the country should not be at peace by April, at the latest.

  Pitt was more cautious. “I think that if the agreement were to last, it would be a very good thing,” he told Wilberforce in the drawing room of Old Palace Yard. He had returned to town recently; a little thinner, with a persistent cough, but with his old strength and energy restored. “I’ve seen the proposal—the benefits are decidedly on the side of France, but that’s not disastrous in itself. Our economy can recover. I just wish I knew what lay behind it.”

  “I thought this was what you hoped for by withdrawing from office. Peace between England and France.”

  “I did. I do. But the circumstances don’t feel right. The enemy aside, France still has stronger magic than Britain. Our navy holds firm, but the kraken took one of our flagships last month. Bonaparte has no incentive to make peace.”

  “Perhaps he wants the opportunity for France to recover too,” Wilberforce said. “Perhaps both countries need a respite.”

  “I thought you told me there could be no respite from war as long as the enemy and I were both still alive.”

  Wilberforce smiled ruefully. “Well. As you pointed out, there’s some difference between the war between the two of you and the war between England and France.”

  He had his own reasons to be hopeful about the peace treaty. When Pitt had been prime minister, he and Wilberforce had always planned that any agreement between England and France could be tweaked to include mutual abolition of the slave trade. France had been drifting away from emancipation since Bonaparte had taken command, it was true, but the First Consul had been sensible enough not to challenge the principles on which the Republic had been built. It was very possible he could be made to agree.

  “Bonaparte won’t be your biggest opponent there, though,” Pitt warned him. “Addington will need to be convinced. And he, in turn, will have to convince the king.”

  Wilberforce was undeterred. “Addington can’t stop me from raising the issue in the House of Commoners, though. And if Parliament votes to recommend to the king that mutual abolition be included, it will be hard to disagree.” He paused. “Can we count on your support for that?”

  “If it comes to Parliament,” he said, “then of course. Honestly, though, it will be difficult to pass, under the current climate. Apart from anything else, people want peace too much to attach conditions to it that won’t benefit them. I think your best chance would be to convince Addington of its propriety in person.”

  “Addington, I’m afraid, will not be convinced. He has no desire for abolition. He’s opposed it from the very beginning. He opposed it again only last week.”

  “I admit that one part of his speech was as unsatisfactory as possible,” Pitt conceded. “But I think that proceeded in a great measure from the evident embarrassment and distress under which he was speaking, and which prevented him from doing any justice to his own ideas. I think you’ll find his opinions to be more forbearing in private conversation.”

  Privately, Wilberforce thought that Pitt was judging Addington’s opinions based on what he would like them to be, but he nonetheless scheduled a meeting with the new prime minister to put the case to him as delicately and reasonably as possible. Addington was perfectly amiable at first, but when Wilberforce had ventured to raise the issue of the slave trade again, he had quickly become irritated.

  “We’re on the brink of a fragile peace with France, Wilberforce,” he said. “This is hardly the time to destroy one of our country’s greatest sources of revenue.”

  It began as abolition debates always began: with hope. It was a battered, stubborn, exhausted hope by now, dulled by long abuse, but it had been fifteen years now, and it hadn’t died. And it had more reason to live now than it had in a long time, or at least so Wilberforce chose to believe.

  “If England is indeed to be at peace, then we have no reason to turn from humane measures anymore out of fear,” he pressed upon them. “There is no argument to be made here that France will be able to continue the trade in England’s place, to her advantage. The war will be over. The end of this filthy trade will be mutual, and mutually beneficial.”

  The walls chimed their notes, clear and flutelike.

  A moment later, Franklin Larrington got to his feet.

  Wilberforce glanced at where Pitt sat with the loyal members of his old government across the benches. Pitt was usually very good at maintaining absolute composure during sittings; this time, though, he caught Wilberforce’s eyes and rolled his own in sympathy.

  “And does the Honorable Member truly believe that France will agree to such an arrangement?” Larrington said.

  “The Republic of Magicians have already ended slavery itself,” Wilberforce said, as calmly as he could. “That edict has not been entirely upheld since Bonaparte took power, but nor has it been reversed. In Saint-Domingue the slaves are already free, by legal means. I see no reason why France won’t agree to making the trade at least finally illegal on both sides.”

  “And do you intend to propose afterward that Britain end slavery too?”

  “You’ll notice I haven’t done so yet,” Wilberforce returned, dropping the correct form as Larrington did. The older politician looked strange: flushed, bright-eyed, as though in the grip of a fever. “But I’m sure you’ll have an argument to make against me if I did.”

  “It sounds to me as though—” Larrington began hotly, then stopped. His voice strangled in his throat; his mouth opened and shut, once, without sound.

  “Mr. Larrington?” the Speaker prompted.

  The older politician’s face was contorted in pain. His eyes moved rapidly about the room. They lighted briefly on Wilberforce, and his blood chilled. He was no magician—Miss More’s books, with their language of spells and enchantments, made no sense to him. But he could recognize it when he saw it. And somehow, impossibly, he saw that what was looking out of Larrington’s eyes was not Larrington.

  Larrington found his voice—or, perhaps, a voice found him. “I ask this House—” he began again.

  He got no further. The walls screamed.

  In all his years listening to them swell and lilt and chime in response to the oration, Wilberforce had never heard anything like the sound. It was like the screech of an owl and the shriek of a
horse in pain; it undulated like a symphony, and every note was agony. Next to him, Thornton clapped his hands to his ears; around him, others did the same. Wilberforce couldn’t explain why he didn’t do so too, except that it felt like something he needed to hear.

  Larrington’s eyes rolled up into his head, and he collapsed. It was no gentle faint: his limbs convulsed, and he grasped feebly at the back of the chair in front of him before tumbling to the floor. The walls fell at once silent, or nearly so. They hummed, a barely audible quaver, as though the wood and stone were trembling.

  There was absolute chaos. Half the House rushed to Larrington: some possibly out of concern, but most out of excited curiosity. Wilberforce couldn’t see Larrington at all from where he was—both the crowds and the backs of the seats were shielding him from view—but he could hear terrible gasping chokes beneath the noise of the spectators.

  “Good Lord,” Thornton said, with customary mildness. “Should we go to help?”

  Wilberforce shook his head, dazed. “There are too many crowding him as it is. He won’t be able to breathe at that rate— Give him some air!” he called, belatedly and ineffectually. From the angry gestures of the Speaker, he was right about this, but nobody was listening.

  He glanced over at Pitt, who glanced back quickly, the shock on his face for once the image of Wilberforce’s own.

  Larrington was carried quickly from the room: Wilberforce caught a glimpse of his white, insensible face as he was borne out the door. The commotion, however, showed no sign of dimming. Much of it was from the spectators above, who were alternating jeers and catcalls with laughter. The Speaker was roaring for order, but his words couldn’t carry over the noise.

  Pitt leaned over to speak quietly to the MP sitting a few rows in front of him; the man in question, youngest son of Lord Sutcliff and MP for one of the constituencies in the Midlands, nodded, stood, and raised his hands. With a sharp crackle that cut through the noise, two fireballs shot from his fingers into the air, exploding harmlessly in a shower of sparks. The noise diminished as most stopped, startled, to look above their heads. A few laughed. The walls continued their low buzz.