A Distant Magic

by Mary Jo Putney

  "I wonder what our mission is. It sounds as if there is much to be done here." He turned right and they began walking along the waterfront, Jean tucked under his arm. The few others out in the storm were scudding quickly along the streets, heading for warmth and shelter. None of them looked liked they needed the help of time travelers.

  "Good Lord. Could that be Thomas Clarkson?" Jean pointed to a tall, lanky figure who was heading out onto a pier. He must have wanted to watch the storm, since there was no work being done. "He might recognize us, so I suppose we shouldn't approach him. Unless he's in danger of being blown off the pier."

  "Do either of us have any magic that could help in such a case? It would be difficult to fish him out of such rough water," Nikolai observed. He tried to sound unconcerned, but the pervasive dark energy was too intense to ignore. "To me, this city feels like it contains the evil spirits of Africa come to steal men's souls."

  "Given Liverpool's history with the slave trade, perhaps their souls have already been taken."

  He nodded, feeling so suffocated by the negative energy that he didn't want to talk. As they studied the scene, a group of eight or nine men emerged from a shabby tavern, fighting the wind as they stepped onto the waterfront. One of the group pointed out the lone man on the pier and spoke to his companions. It was impossible to hear the words over the wind, but the group turned purposefully onto the pier. They were halfway out when the man at the end turned and saw them approaching.

  "It's Clarkson, all right," Jean said tensely. "And I think he's going to need help."

  Nikolai quickened his step as one of the group began yelling at Clarkson. Though the gale winds made it impossible to hear the words, clearly Clarkson was being threatened. In his black clerical clothes, he looked like a scarecrow being attacked by a mob. Two of the men grabbed Clarkson and began dragging him toward the edge of the pier despite his struggles.

  "Dear God!" Jean gasped. "He probably can't swim, and even if he does, these waves might be impossible!"

  Nikolai broke into a run. All around him he could feel the spirit of evil pulsing with rage and hunger for destruction, and the pressure attacked his breathing. Grimly he kept running. Clarkson managed to fight free and almost broke through the sailors, but he was dragged down again. His attackers began kicking as they shouted insults. "Meddlin' bastard! Teach 'im to mind 'is own business!"

  Protecting his head, Clarkson managed to roll away from the kicks and stagger to his feet, but he was too badly outnumbered to have a chance. He was being dragged toward the water again when Nikolai exploded into the group.

  This time he felt no restraint in his attack, using fists and feet and magic to knock out Clarkson's attackers. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jean arrive. Her image was blurred by some kind of magical shield, and he could feel his gaze sliding away. If not for his own magic, he would never have seen her latch onto Clarkson and haul him to his feet, then guide him away, taking half his weight on her own slim shoulders.

  The sailors were fighting back, but their alcohol-fueled rage was no match for Nikolai. He had knocked the last down and was ready to drag the leader to the edge of the pier when a voice in his head cried, "No!"

  He hesitated as cool clarity rushed through him, countering his hot rage. He had been caught up in the spirit of destruction, he realized. His goals might be different from those of the bullies who had attacked Clarkson, but the rage for destruction had been the same.

  He clenched his fists and turned away, shaking. The voice of his ancestors, which sounded just like his grandmother, had pulled him back from the brink. He invoked light to push the dark spirit away as he caught up with Jean and Clarkson. He wrapped an arm around the deacon, taking most of the young man's weight as they left the pier.

  "There's a tavern on that side street," Jean said. "He needs time to recover."

  Nikolai nodded and headed in that direction. Clarkson was walking better now, though his pace was still uneven. "I must thank you, sir," he said a little unsteadily. He blinked owlishly at Nikolai, then turned to Jean. "Why, it's Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, I believe! Are you my guardian angels?"

  Jean laughed. "No, only abolitionists who happened to show up at the right time." They had reached the tavern, and she opened the door for the two men. The place was shabby but clean, and the few other patrons were quiet and orderly.

  After they hung their dripping cloaks on pegs, Nikolai guided Clarkson to a booth while Jean ordered steaming tankards of punch made from hot water, lemon, sugar, and whiskey. As soon as the drinks were delivered, Nikolai took a deep swallow, grateful for the warmth. Next to him, Jean said, "We've been mostly away from England since we met you, Mr. Clarkson. What have you done to inspire such fury?"

  Clarkson sipped his tankard more slowly, his long fingers clasped around the heated pewter. "I knew I had angered many people here in Liverpool, but I didn't expect anyone to try to murder me," he said unsteadily.

  "I think their assault was the impulse of drunkenness," Jean said. "Though the results would have been no less fatal."

  "One of the men who attacked me is a slave ship officer. I tried to have him charged with murder because he killed a sailor on his ship." Clarkson's mouth curved up without humor. "Drunk or sober, he'd gladly dance on my grave. This is a city that has grown fat on the misery of slaves."

  "I heard that the two men who owned the slave ship Zong, where the captain massacred so many slaves, were both former mayors of Liverpool," Jean said.

  "You heard true." Clarkson's intense blue eyes were grim. "And it is not only slaves who suffer. I have been studying the ship's manifests at the Custom House, and the results are shocking. On slave voyages, as many British sailors die as slaves. The officers don't care—dead sailors need no wages. Yet it is hard to persuade sailors to bear witness against the captains because they fear for their jobs. The trade is very nearly as destructive to them as to their unhappy victims."

  "You should not be venturing out in the streets without protection," Nikolai said. "A pistol, a guard, or both."

  "Often my friend Falconbridge accompanies me, and he's a stout fellow, but today he was otherwise engaged. He's writing a book on his experiences as physician on several slave voyages." Clarkson sighed, looking more like a man in his thirties than his twenties. "I do not wish to live like a frightened rabbit, constantly in fear."

  "No one does," Jean said softly. "But your life is precious, Mr. Clarkson. If you die at the hands of ignorant men, it will set the cause back by years. Perhaps decades."

  "I shall bear that in mind." He smiled a little. "The abolition committee wishes me to return to London. Perhaps, on the way, I shall visit Manchester. I have heard that new ideas are welcome there."

  "Have you considered starting a petition in support of abolition?" Jean suggested. "If Parliament sees the signatures of thousands of abolitionists, they will realize that we are a force to be reckoned with."

  "The abolition committee has discussed the possibility of petitions. Perhaps Manchester would be the place to begin." His eyes brightened. "In the two years since I first met you, so much has happened! I translated my essay, and James Phillips published it. I thank you for sending me to him—his suggestions were as helpful as his printing press. The book has done very well. A slow discontent with slavery had been building for years, and suddenly abolition leaped into flames. My essay helped strike the sparks."

  "You mentioned an abolition committee," Nikolai said. "Is that new?"

  Clarkson nodded. "Earlier this year, a dozen of us met at Phillips's print shop and formed an abolition committee. Nine were Quakers, three of us Anglicans." He smiled affectionately. "One cannot ask for better allies than Quakers. They live and work for their beliefs."

  "How do you hope to achieve your goals?" Jean asked.

  "Through the law, of course. We must persuade Parliament to declare the slave trade illegal." He leaned forward, his enthusiasm radiating from him. "I met a most remarkable man, William Wilberforce. He's
only a year older than I, and already a Member of Parliament. He is a devout Evangelical who believes abolition is a moral crusade. There is much work to be done, but with men like Wilberforce in Parliament, surely one day we will succeed."

  He accepted a refill of his punch, then began to speak of what he had learned in his research and interviews with those in the slave trade. Nikolai could understand why the ancestors' magic had brought them to Clarkson twice. The man was a powerful and passionate advocate for his cause.

  When the storm abated, Nikolai and Jean escorted Clarkson back to his lodgings. Then they went in search of a respectable inn for themselves. "I'm ready for a nap," Jean said as she covered a yawn. "Traveling through time and saving lives is tiring."

  So was feeling the relentless dark energy that had engulfed Nikolai since their arrival in Liverpool. A nap might help. But he doubted it.

  "This is interesting." Jean looked up from the local newspaper she'd bought when they booked rooms at a nearby inn. They had dined well in the private parlor, and now she and Nikolai were reading before retiring for bed. They'd come forward a bit more than two years—no need for new garments this time.

  "This whole strange land of yours is interesting." Nikolai glanced up from Adia's book, the only one they'd brought with them. "What has caught your attention?"

  "A by-election was just held to replace a Member of Parliament who died. The custom in this area is to provide ale to the voters to engage their loyalty. This time someone decided to save money because he thought the results of the election were a foregone conclusion. So a different fellow opened up a few hogsheads of ale and won."

  Nikolai grimaced. "This great English democracy is fueled by ale and bribery?"

  "Sadly, yes." She glanced back at the newspaper. "But what caught my attention is that the newly elected MP is called Captain James Trent. That's the name of the master of the slave ship that carried Adia to the Indies. He was also the slave catcher who almost captured her in New York when the American war ended."

  "I wonder if it's the same James Trent? The name doesn't sound uncommon."

  "This Trent is from a prominent family that owns one of the largest shipping lines in Liverpool, and they specialize in slave trading. If he's the same man, that would explain why he captained a slave ship at such a young age." She closed the paper and handed it to Nikolai. "Tomorrow Trent is sponsoring an ale fest for his supporters to celebrate his victory."

  "Perhaps we should attend," he said thoughtfully. "The event might not be on the schedule of the ancestors, but it could be educational."

  She nodded, wondering if the men who voted for Trent supported slavery, or if they were just grateful for the ale. She wasn't sure which answer she liked less.

  By the time Nikolai and Jean reached the market square that was the site of Captain Trent's victory celebration, the crowd was mellow with drink. Nikolai kept Jean well back from the speaking platform that had been erected. He didn't expect the crowd to turn ugly, but drunks were unpredictable. If necessary, the two of them could make a rapid escape down an alley.

  A brass band that made up in noise what it lacked in tunefulness played a fanfare while a well-dressed gentleman climbed onto the platform to introduce the new MP. The lengthy discourse on the captain's experiences in the slave trade and the Americas certainly fit Adia's James Trent.

  The crowd applauded as the new MP moved forward to speak. Trent was a sleek, heavyset man, expensively dressed and reeking with self-satisfaction. Evil in its most respectable form.

  Nikolai's attention sharpened when he saw a lean African a few steps behind Trent. He had ebony skin, military bearing, and a sharp gaze that roamed over the market square. Beside him, Jean gasped, "The African is a mage! Look at his energy field."

  Nikolai adjusted his vision, and suddenly the African flared with dark pulses that mirrored the city's dark light. Did the mage create that energy, or feed from it?

  "Adia mentioned that Trent always had a dangerous-looking African with him, a man named Kondo. He beat other slaves and helped in the slave catching. This could well be Kondo. Since he's a mage, I wonder if he helped in Trent's victory?"

  "Very likely. After all, he was willing to brutalize his own people in return for special privileges." Nikolai had known such men. They were particularly hated by the slaves they terrorized. He probed at the African, wanting to learn more. Kondo was from East Africa, it appeared, and Trent had taken him into his crew even before the slave ship had reached the Indies. Trent had recognized a kindred evil spirit, perhaps.

  He probed deeper, trying to get a sense of the man's nature—then staggered back under a shattering blast of power. He would have fallen if Jean hadn't grabbed his arm.

  "What's wrong?" she gasped.

  "Not…sure." It was difficult to form words. He felt that he was suffocating in foul-smelling black tar.

  She pulled him into the alley and pressed him against a brick wall. Just around the corner, hoarse voices were shouting approval of the new Member of Parliament, but in the alley there was privacy and calm. The dark energy began to leech away, leaving him weak and shaken. "Are you doing something?" he managed to say.

  "Shielding you. Protection and shielding are what I do best. It saved us after Culloden." She spread her right hand across the center of his chest with firm pressure. The darkness retreated farther.

  He managed to say, "You have become more adept at using your magic."

  She smiled wryly. "I've always been good in times of disaster, and you, Master Gregorio, are currently a disaster. Are you strong enough to walk?"

  He collected himself and tried to step away from the supportive wall. His heart hammered like drums, and he almost fell again. Jean pushed him back against the bricks. He drew a long, ragged breath. "Apparently not."

  "Whatever struck you drained away most of your energy, and it will take time for that to return. I wonder..."

  Her arms went around his chest and she tilted her face up into a searing kiss. It had been—thirty years?—since they had kissed like this, and he tumbled headlong into the passion they had so carefully banked. Her slim body was pressed full length into his, and he was profoundly aware of rich femaleness hidden beneath corsets and petticoats.

  "Jean…" He breathed, his hands running down her back to cup her beautifully rounded backside. "Why have we been waiting?"

  Flushed and laughing, she pulled from his embrace. "We can discuss this later. If you're recovered, let us return to our inn."

  Most of his strength had returned, he realized. He felt as if he'd just arisen from a fever bed—tired but whole again. "I want to look at Trent and Kondo before we leave."

  "That would not be wise," she said firmly.

  He allowed her to take his arm and steer them away from the market square. "What happened in the square? I've never felt anything like that, even during initiation."

  "I have a theory. That we can also discuss later." She tucked her arm in his, sending quiet strength as she did. "Liverpool is turning out to be most interesting."

  Chapter

  THIRTY-ONE

  Luckily it was less than a mile to their inn. Jean made a swift transaction with their landlord for a bottle of brandy on their way up to their rooms. When they were safely behind locked doors, she gave Nikolai a straight shot of the brandy and mixed a watered drink for herself.

  The jolt of the brandy burned away the last of his scrambled wits. "Your theory about what happened?"

  She curled up in a chair opposite his, turning her glass restlessly between her palms. "Remember Lord Falconer saying that passionately held beliefs can create a kind of spirit that is an expression of people's emotions?" When he nodded, she continued, "That pro-slavery energy hovers over Liverpool like a poisoned cloud. You are particularly aware of it, perhaps because of your experiences with slavery. I feel it also, but not so intensely as you."

  He cautiously sampled the energy that saturated even this quiet room. "That explains the pervasive
negativity, but what about Trent's rally?"

  "Kondo is a dark mage, and I think he magnifies the city's darkness. He used it as a weapon against you, though I don't know if he realized he was doing that. He might have just instinctively shoved against your intrusion. Since you both have African magic and that is rare in these parts, you may be vulnerable to each other."

  "A charming thought." He frowned. "Adia and her friends created the bead spells to find people to protect the abolition movement. She said that at the beginning the movement was so fragile that the death of a single man could cause failure. Having met Thomas Clarkson, I can see how vital he is to the cause, and no doubt there will be others who are equally vital. But as I feel the voracious evil energy of this city, I wonder if part of our job is to defend against the pro-slavery spirit. Is that possible?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine." She sipped her brandy absently. "I wonder if the evil spirit of slavery is what possessed the sailors to attack Mr. Clarkson. They could have easily passed on by. In the middle of a gale, ignoring him makes more sense than trying to murder him. But the circumstances were right to do murder. Perhaps the slave demon was drawn to their anger and resentment, and it triggered the attack."

  "Lord Falconer said that such spirits tend to attack those who oppose what the spirit stands for. He also said that the struggle against slavery will take place on many levels." Nikolai reached for the brandy bottle and poured more, feeling the need for fortification. "We can't help with the politics, nor in raising public awareness of slavery, so perhaps our chief task is fighting the pro-slavery spirit." He closed his eyes, feeling the corrosive energy gnawing at his soul. "I don't know if I am strong enough."

  Jean leaned forward and covered his hand with hers. "We were sent together because we have complementary abilities. You are sensitive to African magic, including this wicked spirit, but that also means you are specially gifted in fighting them."