The Witch Watch

by Shamus Young

  The men could not hide their disappointment. They shuffled off and did not return to their cards.

  Once he was alone, Gilbert let out a long, slow breath.

  “Why are you sighing?” Simon asked.

  “There’s only so much amusement a streetlamp has to offer,” Gilbert answered. He pulled his hood tighter around his head. Passers-by were staring at them as Simon stood gawking at the light.

  “It’s a marvel!” he beamed, his glasses glinting in the light. “And so many. They go all the way down the street. So much brighter than gas lamps.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve never seen one before. They began putting them up around London two years ago. No, five years. I keep forgetting. Dreadful mess. They dug trenches through the streets to lay the cables. It was impossible getting around.”

  “I’ve never been to London. I’ve never even been away from Ravenstead. Most of my life was spent at the academy,” Simon paused and flinched slightly with the memory. “After that I spent time both at the academy and the manor.”

  Gilbert was quiet as a group of men hurried by. He was never sure how safe it was for people to hear his voice. Once they had passed he answered, “I guess that explains why you never saw an electric street light. But haven’t you seen them elsewhere?”

  “You, know, it’s funny,” Simon said, finally taking his eyes off the lamp and turning to Gilbert, “His Lordship did have electrical apparatus in the cellar. I saw it only once, and it wasn’t in use at the time, but I remember a large thing draped with copper wires. I brought down a load of coal once and placed it in a bin next to the machine. Had no idea what it was at the time. I guess it was for making electricity.”

  “A strange thing for him to have in his house. I don’t remember seeing any electric lights anywhere in the place.” Gilbert looked up and down the sidewalk nervously. “Let’s keep moving, I think we’ve made ourselves enough of a spectacle for tonight.”

  They had arrived in London early the previous morning. They were still chasing Headmaster Graves, and hoped to catch him before he and his men boarded the ship to America. They had spent the night in London, where Simon got a bit of long-overdue food and sleep. They set out again when evening came. Gilbert wanted to start out sooner, but he wasn’t willing to push the boy any harder. Simon had spent most of his life being neglected, hungry, and tired, and Gilbert didn’t want to add to his sufferings.

  The boy had perked up considerably, and was now dashing through the dreary London night, full of joy and wonder. “Where are we headed next?” he asked once they had left the curiosity of the electric light behind.

  “The train station. From there we head for Liverpool. You’ll be able to sleep a bit more on the train if you need it.” Deprived of his mortal needs and desires, Gilbert found the business of eating and sleeping to be mercilessly tedious.

  “I couldn’t possibly sleep now!” Simon beamed. He was walking along, looking almost straight up to see the tops of the surrounding buildings against the black sky. Gilbert steered him away from trouble as they walked.

  The train station was a place of ornate desolation. A relatively new building by London standards, it was clean and well-kept, and decorated with much elaborate ironwork. Yet it felt cold and somehow empty despite the many huddled passengers. The sounds of footsteps echoed in the space as if they were descending into a tomb. A large clock scowled at them overhead. The place smelled of burning coal and engine oil.

  Gilbert looked at the schedule and worked out which train and which platform they would need. Then he gave Simon most of their remaining coin and sent him to purchase their tickets.

  “We’re in luck,” Simon said once he returned. “Our train has just arrived.”

  Gilbert hung his head. “Then we are not in luck. Somewhere ahead of us is the headmaster, and his men. If fortune was on our side, then our train would have arrived hours ago, and our quarry would be waiting for us on board. As it stands, they left on the previous train. Or even the one before that, if they didn’t stop for rest.”

  “What makes you think they didn’t-” Simon was cut off as Gilbert yanked him sideways and dragged him to the other side of the platform. A group of Red Sashes was coming towards them and Gilbert wanted to get out of their way.

  “I don’t know if they rested or not,” Gilbert explained when they were at a safer distance. “Remember that the Headmaster doesn’t know we’re chasing him. He has no reason to hurry on our account. The last time we saw each other, I was on my way into his master’s trap. Now that I’m thinking of it, it’s possible he went back to Ravenstead to report to your master.”

  “He’s not my master anymore,” Simon muttered.

  “You’re right. And I’m glad to hear you say it,” Gilbert said warmly.

  They boarded and tried to find a cabin where they might be left alone. They sat in silence until the train departed. Simon was enthralled with the experience at first, but after a while he became used to the gentle rolling sensation. The lights of London faded into the distance.

  Finally Simon turned from watching the darkness drift by their window, “Gilbert, what do you think will happen to me? When this is over, I mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Gilbert said. “You speak well. And you’re literate. You’re young, and you’ve been taught proper manners. You should be able to find work somewhere.”

  “I don’t know how to do that. There’s a lot I don’t know. Most of my life has been spent studying things that would get me hanged.” He took his hat from his head and fidgeted it with it in his lap. “I’m always afraid of saying or doing something that will give me away. It’s one of the reasons I went back to the manor after you freed me. I just couldn’t imagine myself walking out into the world and living my own life.”

  “You’re not a slave anymore. You shouldn’t be asking what will happen to you next. Instead, ask yourself what you want. You should find it easy to figure out what to do once you have a goal.”

  Simon looked down thoughtfully. “Up until now, my only desire has been to escape the hunger and the beatings. Now that I’ve achieved it, I’m not sure where to go next. I guess what I want is to stay with you a while longer. I had many boys that I called friends in the academy, but the truth was that any of those boys would have socked me in the eye if it meant an extra handful of bread that evening, and I suppose the same was true for me. We weren’t friends, really. We were just people who shared a common misery. I think you’re the first person I could ever call friend. I haven’t forgotten what you did for me back at the church.”

  “Don’t forget that you’ve paid me back for that kindness by saving me from your former master. I owe you my life, or whatever this is called. And if we’re very lucky, my mother will owe you her life as well.”

  “Well, if the question is what I want to do with my life, then I seem to be doing it already,” Simon said with a smile. “I’m happy to help you with your mother, in exchange for your guidance and protection.”

  Gilbert laughed, “You might need protection less if you weren’t with me, but I accept your offer. You’ll be my face, and I’ll be your sword.”

  Simon planted his bowler on his head again. “Agreed!” he said, holding out his hand.

  Gilbert shook it. “Agreed.”

  “Alice, you’re a sunrise to behold!” beamed Lord Moxley. “What brings such a beautiful sight to so dreary a place?”

  They were in the ministry building on King Charles Street. It was not at all a dreary place, but an elaborate construction of Italianate architecture. It was a place of stratospheric ceilings with intricate red and gold ornament and stencil work. Great arching windows welcomed the cold, colorless morning sun.

  “I’m afraid I have bad news,” she stammered weakly. She felt so out of place here, and wished she could just return to the library and bury herself in her work.

  “I cannot imagine a better way to receive bad news than to have it delivered by a messenger such as yourself,”
he cooed. “Where did you get that dress? Is it French?”

  “Indeed. A gift from my mother, sent to me the last time she was in France,” Alice replied.

  “Extraordinary beauty in that country. Clothes. Climate. Food. Exquisite, all of it. A shame about the people.” Lord Moxley led her up a grand staircase and into one of the many offices upstairs.

  It was strange to think that if the Ministry of Ethereal Affairs was a more conventional sort of place, they would be headquartered here instead of Grayhouse. Alice wondered to herself how the royal palace must look, because she couldn’t imagine what anyone could do to make a place grander than this, short of making everything out of solid gold.

  “I’m very sorry you have bad news for me,” he continued, “But I’m afraid I must repay you with bad news of my own. You’d best be sitting down when you hear it.” He motioned her into a nearby chair. She took it only reluctantly. The chairs here looked too lavish to be sat upon. He took a seat facing her. There was also a desk in the room, although it was hard for her to imagine that Moxley ever used it.

  “Perhaps you should go first,” she suggested, “My news is likely the worst.”

  “I sincerely doubt it, but if that’s the case then you should go first. I’d rather get the worst of it over with. And besides, now that I think of it, Captain Turpin should be present for my news. It concerns him and his men as well.”

  “That’s part of why I’m here,” Alice said, her voice shaking. “Captain Turpin has... he’s dead. He was killed two nights ago, along with all of his men, save for Private Archer.”

  Moxley placed his hand on his heart in an exaggerated expression. “My dear, twice in one week you have utterly shocked me. This is going to be a terrible bother to sort out. I concede that your news was indeed the worst by far, but it has the unexpected benefit of rendering my ill news of no value.” Moxley was using roughly the same tone of voice he used to decry the rain a few days earlier.

  Alice was strangely comforted by his reaction. If Lord Moxley had wept or grieved, it would have cut her to the heart and she would have begun crying. King Charles Street was not a place for common tears. Mastering herself, she tried to reply with a similar level of detachment. “So your news concerned the Captain?”

  “Yes. Well, all of the men. I’m afraid the arrest of Sir Edward Brooks and his accomplices has had political repercussions.”

  “Who?”

  Moxley sighed. “The Four Horsemen, I believe you called them?”

  “Oh! I am so silly. I thought that business was dealt with.”

  “Not in the slightest. These men - Brooks, in particular - are making the case that Ethereal Affairs is reckless and ill-managed. They are saying that the ministry has been less successful since the loss of your father, and that reform is needed. Specifically, more oversight.”

  Alice hung her head, “Lord Moxley, a week ago this would have been devastating news, but now the world of political maneuvering seems so tiresome and silly in the face of so many deaths. What’s the worst Parliament can do to us?”

  “They have done it. Our funding is cut. The men are recalled to the service of Her Majesty. The ministry is to halt all activities until an investigation can be conducted. I called on you two days ago to give you the news, but rumors told that you had recently departed.”

  “I can’t believe they would do that. Close the Ministry, I mean. It is popular and successful.”

  “But not as successful as it was in the past. And common success can sometimes be mistaken for failure when compared to triumph.”

  “So people are unhappy that we’re catching fewer malefactors?”

  “Not unhappy. Simply less impressed. Your organization has risen to the point where it has been taken for granted. Few endeavors attain such honor.”

  “I suppose it was inevitable that we would falter. I can’t hope to fill my father’s shoes.”

  “Nobody suggested that you should take his place alone. Besides, you are undervaluing yourself. The ministry has done well enough in the last few years. And don’t forget that the reason you have fewer witches to catch today is because your father caught so many in the past.”

  “I suppose. But it doesn’t matter if we’re to be closed.”

  “Not closed. I did not say closed. Not even our foes, as powerful as they are, can accomplish that. They have taken the wind out of our sails, not sunk our ship. Remember that the Queen’s husband is exceptionally fond of us. Albert Prince-Consort has little legal power, but he has a large number of allies as well as the hearts of the people. He hasn’t gotten involved yet. I’m curious to see what he will do.”

  “Couldn’t you go to him?” Alice asked.

  “Bless you, Alice. Your naïveté is often invigorating. But no, that is the last thing I should do. If I go to see him, it will be known. It would only make him appear weak. Imagine, him making an appearance and defending the Ministry at the request of a distant subordinate! No, the trick with his power is that he is strongest when he appears most aloof. Rest assured that he knows what is happening, and will move when the time is right. It would do no good for me to go and tell him what he already knows.”

  “Well, he might be in more of a hurry if he knew what we’d found in Ravenstead,” Alice said.

  “You have proof of witchcraft?” Moxley asked with surprise.

  Alice nodded, “We found evidence of ongoing necromancy in the family crypt. The residents cannot possibly hope to feign ignorance this time. Also, we were assaulted.” Alice then explained the ambush as she’d been able to unravel it, and the battle in front of the manor.

  “Well, that’s some comfort,” Moxley replied once she’d told her tale. “That should leave more than enough evidence to move against Edward Brooks. Remember that he is the legal owner of the Ravenstead estate. If we can show that Captain Turpin and his men were slaughtered on the grounds, it would unmask Brooks. His allies in Parliament would abandon him, and our ministry would be restored. Now, what of the Princess?”

  Alice shrugged, “I can’t say. We didn’t find her at the estate.”

  “I see there’s something you’re not telling me,” Moxley said slyly. “You haven’t said why you left Private Archer to recover the bodies on his own. You also haven’t mentioned what became of the abomination. It has been said that the Witch Watch buried someone in Tyburn. And I read in the papers that you left two days ago with a large man in black, and that he did not return with you. There are a great many pieces missing from your tale.”

  Alice opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with a dismissive a wave of the hand, “I don’t care about the messy details.” Then he leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper, “Be careful what secrets you speak here. Our foes would be fools not to attempt some sort of divination in a place like this.”

  Alice nodded. She understood that she shouldn’t speak of Gilbert, but she wasn’t sure what other secrets would be dangerous. Hadn’t they already divulged a number of dangerous items in their conversation? She sighed. She simply had no head or patience for this business of subterfuge.

  Moxley looked her in the eye. His gaze was probing, almost to the point of interrogation. He spoke in a firm, quiet voice, “I just want to know what you’re trying to accomplish.”

  Alice was suddenly offended, “I want to restore the princess, and put her abductors behind bars, of course!”

  Moxley nodded and smiled brightly. “Good girl! Most people would want to clear their own name. Or reclaim their job. Or avenge their fallen friends. But you are not thinking about yourself at all. Even when your own life is in turmoil, you are focused on helping and protecting others. You are very much your father’s daughter. This is the answer I was looking for.”

  “You speak as if you have some sort of plan,” she said suspiciously.

  “A plan? No. But I can offer some help.”

  “More help would be welcome. Private Archer and I are hardly a match for our foes.”

  “I
am sorry to say that even Private Archer is of no help to you. He will be returned to regular military duty the next time he reports in.”

  “So I’m alone?” Alice asked mournfully.

  “I could put in a request to replace the Captain and his men, if I wanted to have a large number of people laugh at me to my face. But I do not think you are alone. If I am reading things correctly, you have at least one ally left. The one of whom we do not speak. The one you omitted from your tale of two nights ago?”

  “Yes. I guess that is an ally of sorts,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Well here is another ally,” Moxley said as he handed her a purse. “But don’t open it here!” he scolded as she tried to peek inside. “Virtue, strength. Idealists always have these in excess. But they always forget the third thing you need for victory. Then they march off to ruin and defeat.”

  “So what is the third thing?” Alice asked with amusement.

  “Money, you silly girl!”

  Alice weighed the purse in her hand.

  Lord Moxley spoke before she could offer gratitude, “The Ministry has never been as thorough about spending all of its funds as it could be, and that purse is the reservoir that has captured the excess. My advice is for you to do whatever you can to save Sophie. Her disappearance is now becoming generally known around Buckingham. Even the daftest of the chambermaids is observant enough to notice a missing princess. Gossip spreads much like a disease, and before long it will spill over to us here at King Charles Street. Once that happens, the story will take to the papers, and the real chaos will begin. If we are very lucky, you will rescue her after this happens. Don’t look at me like that. I’ll be happy with her rescue whenever it takes place, and I know you would not delay it for personal gain. That’s one of the reasons I’m entrusting you with the purse. But our recovery will be much more expedient if we can resolve a public crisis.”

  Mr. Brooks,

  You asked for guidance on where you might learn more about the language of sorcery, which is commonly called Black Latin. I would urge you to be careful in this line of study. Some parties in the church consider the study of the profane language to be itself an act of witchcraft, even if done purely for academic purposes. I do think this study is important, but I do not wish to send you unaware into danger. We are ever starved for educated allies, and practitioners of witchcraft have benefited greatly over the centuries by having their own, secret language with which they might communicate.