A Distant Magic

by Mary Jo Putney

  As they entered the looming building, Buckland said, "This is the second day of debate, and the vote should take place toward the end of the session. You will hear some of the most amazing arguments from the pro-slavery people. One member claimed abolition would destroy our Canadian fisheries because it's the Indies slaves who are fed the worst fish."

  "What?" Nikolai said incredulously.

  "Don't expect it to make sense." Buckland led them through the palace and up to the gallery level, stopping outside a section of blank wall. He made a gesture that flared with magic and a door appeared. As he ushered Jean and Nikolai in, he said, "I masked this room yesterday in case it was needed today. Which was an odd thing for me to do, now that I think of it. The shield net must have been prodding me."

  "Whenever the ancestors are involved, strange things happen," Nikolai observed.

  The room was like a theater box seat next to the large public gallery on one side of the chamber where the House of Commons met. The galleries on both sides were packed, but their little box had half a dozen chairs and a good view down into the chamber. Because of the masking, no one seemed to notice them.

  "I must go—I'm an MP myself." Buckland pulled a handful of papers from his document case. "If you become bored, you might want to look at this. It's a summary of the slavery accounts given in nearly two thousand pages of hearing notes. We wanted a document short enough that even the dullest MP could find the time to read it. I shall see you later. Good luck. Perhaps you can turn the tide."

  He left just as the session below was called to order. Jean said quietly, "Simon must still be alive or Buckland would be sitting in the House of Lords rather than Commons. I'm glad to know that."

  So was Nikolai. Even in his seventies, Falconer had been a formidable mage, and they might need his power before this day was done.

  As Buckland had said, the speeches were interesting. Wilberforce spoke, saying in his calm, rich voice that ending the slave trade could only help the West Indies plantations because slaves would be treated more gently and productivity would increase. A flamboyant man in a dragoon's uniform leaped up, waving a hand with only three fingers as he claimed that the Africans themselves had no objections to the slave trade.

  When the next speaker rose, Jean clutched Nikolai's arm. "It's Captain Trent, from Liverpool!"

  Sure enough, Trent was here, several pounds fatter and several years more unctuous. In a booming voice he declared, "You have all heard of the slave revolt in Dominica, one of the fairest of our Indies sugar islands. That revolt, sirs, is a direct result of the abolition movement! Unpatriotic fools have stirred the passions of the heathen Africans, and now the wealth and health of Britain herself are threatened!"

  As Trent ranted, Nikolai felt the pro-slavery energy intensifying. He also felt a familiar dark energy. "Trent's priest, Kondo, is nearby and active," he said tersely. "I am going to find him."

  "Be careful," Jean said. "He's surely working to increase the Demon energy."

  So she felt it, too. He touched her shoulder. "I will be all right."

  He left their private box and paused outside, turning his locater skills to finding Kondo. He had felt the priest's energy very clearly at Wilberforce's house. Now it was just a matter of identifying his individual energy amidst the signatures of the hundreds of other people in the palace. Kondo was so distinctive that tracing him didn't take long. Especially since his energy was braided into a flood of Demon power.

  Nikolai followed the trail up a flight of stairs and down long corridors, finding that the energy strengthened as he moved closer to the source. This area of the building was almost empty since there was a controversial bill being debated.

  The energy track led to a latched door. Nikolai used one angry burst of power to open it. He had become quite adept at using his power as a tool, or a weapon.

  The door opened to a small, comfortably furnished office. Behind the desk was Kondo, his eyes closed and his clothing that of an English gentleman. Demon energy pulsed around him as sluggish black light, coursing through the building to the House of Commons. There it would strengthen the pro-slavery forces and weaken the abolitionists.

  Guessing that Kondo had chosen the office at random because he needed a quiet place to work, Nikolai stepped inside. The African's eyes opened and filled with recognition. "You," he said in a guttural, heavily accented voice. "The English slave. I knew we would meet again. You shall not stop me this time."

  "I am not English, and I am not a slave." Nikolai focused his power and slashed at the rope of energy that connected Kondo to the Demon. If he could quickly sever the man from the evil spirit…

  It was like hitting steel. His energy bounced back at him with agonizing force. Kondo laughed. "You cannot hurt me. I protect the dark spirit, and it protects me."

  As Nikolai struggled to collect himself, he asked, "How can you work against your own people? You have the power to achieve wealth and freedom without serving a swine of a white man like Trent."

  Kondo looked bored. "African slaves are not my people. Why should I exhaust myself trying to help useless beasts of burden?" His eyes glinted. "I live better than any African king, and I have found that Englishwomen are very curious about African lovers. I have exactly the life I wish."

  "So you are still a slave?"

  Scarlet energy flared around the African. "I am not! I have my freedom papers. I serve Trent because I choose to, and he pays very, very well."

  From Kondo's reaction, he might feel rather less free than he wished. But that was the African's problem. "Very well, you do not wish to exert yourself on behalf of slaves. But why work for the pro-slavery forces? There is no need to do that. As a mage, you could support yourself well by other means."

  "Because I have power, and I enjoy using it." Kondo rose to his feet, his posture threatening. Though he must be over fifty, he had the fitness and aura of danger, of a warrior, and the demonic energy swirling around him emphasized the darkness of his soul. "More power than you have, and now I shall prove it!"

  He raised his arms and hurled an annihilating blast of Demon energy at Nikolai, who reeled back into the door. He was paralyzed, sliding to the floor—yet as he fell, a net of diamond white brilliance flared around him, pushing back the darkness.

  Kondo staggered and had to grab the edge of the desk for support. "Damn you!" he gasped.

  As his numbness began to fade, Nikolai realized that the shield net had defended him just as the Demon had protected Kondo. "Stalemate," he managed to gasp. "I cannot kill you, and you cannot kill me."

  "Not by magic, perhaps. But there are more primitive methods." Kondo whipped a dagger out from under his elegantly cut coat and stabbed down at Nikolai's heart. Nikolai tried to dodge, but he was still too weak to move quickly.

  The blade struck with bruising force and slashed his shirt and waistcoat, but it skittered away without penetrating Nikolai's chest. Kondo swore with vicious fluency. "You and your bitch built your shield well! But I can still rattle your brains."

  As the Demon expanded and grew more powerful, Kondo reversed the dagger and slammed the hilt on Nikolai's head. Nikolai fell into darkness—and to his horror, around him spun splintering fragments of the shield net.

  Chapter

  THIRTY-SIX

  During quiet parts of the debate, Jean skimmed the hearing summary notes. The stories were shocking and sometimes stomach turning. She was beginning to wonder what had happened to Nikolai, when the door to her box opened. She glanced up, expecting to see him, but a young woman wearing the sober garb of an Evangelical peered inside. "May I join you? I arrived late, and there are no seats left in the gallery."

  "Of course. They are nearing the vote, I believe." Jean guessed that Nikolai hadn't masked the door when he left. She made a mental note to show him the trick of it. He was an interesting mixture of great power and odd gaps in his knowledge. In the meantime, she wouldn't mind having a companion.

  "Pray God Mr. Wilberforce's legisl
ation passes!" The newcomer sat down with an empty seat between her and Jean. Though she looked no more than twenty or so, she wore a wedding ring. "My name is Elizabeth Heyrick. I traveled down from Leicester to hear the debates and watch the voting."

  "I am Jean Gregory. I've only just arrived back in England, but like you, I am praying that the law passes."

  "I have scarcely been able to sleep since I saw the Brookes diagram," Elizabeth confided as she set her drawstring bag on the floor and removed her dark shawl. "It is still hard to believe that men can treat other men with such cruelty."

  "The Brookes diagram? I don't know what that is."

  "You haven't seen it?" Elizabeth exclaimed. "But of course, you have been out of the country. Here, let me show you. I always carry my copy to remind myself." She opened her bag and pulled out a stained, folded piece of paper. Handing it to Jean, she said, "It's a diagram of a real slave ship named the Brookes, and it shows how the slaves are packed into the space for the Atlantic passage."

  Jean unfolded the large sheet and caught her breath. Despite all she'd learned about the trade, the actual image of slaves jammed together like salted herring was horrifying. "This is appalling! No wonder so many die during the passage."

  "This diagram shows four hundred eighty-two slaves," Elizabeth said bitterly. "I counted to be sure. On some voyages, the Brookes carried half again as many slaves."

  "No one who sees this could be unmoved," Jean whispered.

  "The slave captains and plantation owners manage that," the other woman said. "When a very mild law was passed saying that slaves must be allowed more space, the slavers claimed that it would cause the deaths of all the whites in Jamaica. And then they failed to provide even that mild improvement."

  Jean shook her head as she returned the diagram. She was becoming used to the hysterical political rhetoric of the slavers. "Perhaps that will change after today's vote."

  As they turned their attention to the chamber below, Jean was swamped by a paralyzing flood of Demon energy that took dark, bloody-minded joy in greed, control, and cruelty. The influx was so intense she could barely breathe. Horrified, she realized that the shield net was starting to rip apart, overwhelmed by the power of the spirit it had been created to control.

  Fight back. She threw her awareness and power into the shield, drawing strength from the collected energy of her friends and allies. She could feel shock and disorientation as the net's demand for power overwhelmed the two wardens on duty and began drawing from everyone connected to it. She became one with the net, feeling its rifts as if they were agonizing wounds in her own body.

  She shuddered as several panicky wardens cut the connection, but more wardens began pouring their energy into the shield. In the background were more diffuse energies from regular abolitionists. Gradually the jagged tears in the net began to heal.

  As the rifts disappeared, Jean's pain faded away. The shield net would survive, but it did not have the strength to prevent the Demon from influencing the present voting.

  When the last links of the shield net had been repaired, Jean drew a deep, dizzy breath and withdrew back into her own body. She felt as if she should bear scars from the energy wounds she'd suffered in the net, but she looked normal enough even though she'd probably collapse if she tried to stand. Luckily Elizabeth Heyrick was so intent on the voting that she hadn't noticed anything wrong with Jean. From the young woman's taut expression, the vote was going against them.

  Weary to the bone, Jean watched the final votes being tallied. By the end, two-thirds of the MPs present voted against abolishing the trade. The chamber erupted as the pro-slavery supporters whooped with joy. Abolitionist MPs sat stunned by the magnitude of their defeat. After Buckland's warning about the uncertain outcome, Jean was not really surprised, but she was profoundly disappointed.

  Elizabeth began sobbing uncontrollably, her body shaking with despair. "Everyone I know in Leicester opposes slavery," she gasped. "Where are these slave lovers hiding? How can any decent man vote in favor of the trade?"

  "Money and power are intertwined like serpents. Slavery is the source of great wealth, and that gives men power. Enough power to buy as many politicians as they need." Jean gestured toward the floor of the house, where men were churning back and forth, slapping one another's backs and congratulating themselves on their victory.

  "It is wrong that a minority of men can allow wickedness that is despised by the majority." Elizabeth's tears were drying as anger began to replace grief. "Yet what can common people like me do to fight such evil?"

  "Hit the slave industry in its pocketbook," Jean said slowly as an idea began to form. Pamphlets she'd bought in 1788 had described the sugar trade in pounds and pence. "Huge amounts of sugar are sold in Britain every year. If enough of us stop buying it, the plantation owners will see their profits fall. If one in ten Britons refuses to buy sugar, the planters will notice. If one in five stops, it will change the industry forever."

  Elizabeth caught her breath as she considered Jean's suggestion. "I wonder if such a thing is possible. There are many of us who would agree to stop buying sugar, but there are many more who would not wish to give up their sweetening, not even to save lives. My own mother is a staunch abolitionist, yet she would give blood from her veins before she would drink her tea without sugar."

  "I've read that sugar from India is not produced by slaves." Jean smiled wryly. "The conditions of the Indians who produce it might not be much better than those of Caribbean slaves, but at least they are free. Indian sugar costs more, but wouldn't that be a small price to pay for a clear conscience?"

  Elizabeth's face lit up. "That would work! We could also refuse to buy from bakers who use slave sugar, or from grocers who carry it. If enough people join the campaign, the merchants will have to use Indian sugar or lose much of their custom."

  "Such a campaign would take time," Jean warned. "At first it would not be taken seriously, I suspect."

  "But refusing to eat sugar is something that anyone, even a child, can do. There will be many who will join us, that I know. Especially if they can buy Indian sugar." The prospect of action put determination in Elizabeth's eyes. "When I return to Leicestershire, I shall begin with our local antislavery group, and we shall write to other groups across the nation. I vow that a year from now, we will be taken seriously!"

  Jean was not a seer, but she had a very powerful sense that this young woman would make a difference in the abolition movement. "I shall watch for reports of people refusing to buy sugar, and I will spread the word myself."

  Elizabeth stood, already looking beyond this defeat to the next battle. "The forces of commerce may have carried today, but there will be other, better days."

  She lifted her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. As she did, Jean noticed that the other woman's muslin kerchief was pinned by a brooch that showed a kneeling African in chains. There was lettering engraved around the edge, but Jean couldn't make out the words. "Excuse me, but what does your medallion say?"

  Elizabeth touched the embossed metal. "It says, 'Am I not a man and a brother?' The design was done by Mr. Wedgwood, the pottery manufacturer, to remind us of the common humanity of African and European."

  Like the ship diagram, it was a potent image. "I must get one for myself."

  "Here." Elizabeth unfastened the clasp and offered the medallion. "It is yours."

  "Oh, no, really," Jean protested, a little startled. "I can buy my own."

  "Take it, please." Elizabeth smiled. "A brooch is a small return for hope."

  Jean offered her hand, and the other woman took it. Once more, intuition spoke. "You will make a difference, Mrs. Heyrick. Indeed you will. Go with God."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Gregory." The younger woman hugged Jean, then left the box, head high.

  Now that she was alone, Jean was free to give in to her worry about Nikolai. He had been gone far too long. She settled into a chair and sought him mentally. She had just decided that he was alive but
injured, when the door to the box opened and he entered. Jean gasped when she saw his slashed garments. "Good heavens, what happened to you?" She went into his arms, careful not to hug too hard.

  "I found Kondo, and he bested me," Nikolai said ruefully. His embrace was not careful at all—he held her with rib-bruising force. "The shield net protected me from his energy blasts and his attempt to stab me to death, but he managed to knock me out of my wits. I thought then that the shield was being overwhelmed, but it feels sound enough now. What did I miss?"

  Before she could reply, Lord Buckland entered the box, looking drained. "That was the first time that the shield net demanded such power from us. The shield barely survived. We need to find more qualified wardens."

  "We must learn to draw on a broader range of abolitionists. Perhaps we can reach beyond the London area." Jean briefly explained what happened to Nikolai before adding, "I don't think that we arrived here to bring success. I think the ancestors sent us here to prevent total disaster. We came close to losing the shield net—even one less warden might have been the difference between saving it and complete destruction. The consequences might have been dire. Also, a young lady joined me here, and when she recovered from her disappointment, she left determined to persuade every abolitionist in Britain to stop using slave-grown sugar."

  Buckland's brows rose. "Hit them in their profits! What a fine idea. I will do my best to spread the word."

  "Sympathizers will be glad to have something solid to do," Nikolai predicted.

  "The movement is alive. Even if the political tides are against us, we will persevere." Buckland gave a tired smile. "But it would have been altogether more pleasant to have won."

  His comment was a masterpiece of gentlemanly understatement. Jean leaned against Nikolai, wanting to sleep the clock around. "Is there a nice inn where you could leave us on your way home?"

  Buckland nodded. "Will you be staying here for long?"

  Jean glanced up at Nikolai. By this time, they didn't need words to arrive at such decisions. "For a few weeks. We should visit our African friends, then learn how to draw general abolition energy into the shield net."