Lord Blackburn stopped outside the doors and spoke briefly to one of the watchmen. Jack wished he had time to concentrate and use his Sight to spy on them, but it was alarmingly possible that Lord Blackburn would sense his intrusion. Charm shouldn’t allow it, yet it had happened. Master Thomas had speculated that all powerful magicians were sensitive to magic, even if they lacked all of the talents. It was as good a theory as any other. He would have to rely on his own senses.
Jack drifted through the air and came to rest on top of the suspicious building. Lord Blackburn had vanished inside, leaving Jack searching the building for a way to enter without being seen. It quickly proved to be impossible. The one hatchway leading down into the building was guarded; he could hear muffled voices from below, suggesting that at least two guards were on duty. He could have broken through and killed them before they had a chance to raise the alarm, but it would not have passed unnoticed. Master Thomas would have known that someone had broken into the building – and it wouldn’t be hard to guess who.
Instead, he took a gamble and floated silently down to one of the windows. It had been painted black, preventing anyone from peering inside, but Jack had very sharp ears. The sound of male grunting could be heard, faintly, accompanied by feminine gasps. Jack smiled, sourly, as he floated back up to the rooftop. He’d located the farm, or at least one of them. All he had to do was decide what to do with the information. Breaking in and wrecking the place, as tempting as it seemed, would be hazardous. There were too many magicians in the building.
Shaking his head, he drifted off into the air and headed down the Thames. There were still boats on the river, including a handful that were clearly smuggling while the excise men were tucked up in bed. London had thousands of docks, jetties and warehouses on both sides of the Thames. It wouldn’t be difficult for smugglers to smuggle in anything they wanted – and once they’d converted their goods to money, no one would be able to prove what had happened. London’s importance didn’t just come from its position. The bank vaults in London were regarded as the safest in the entire world. Even New York didn’t come close. Jack made a mental note to plan a bank robbery and drifted down to one of the smaller barges. The crew didn’t notice him as he touched down on the deck, not until he allowed his cloak to rustle through the air. They looked up in alarm, and then relaxed. Jack had promised them he’d visit, after all.
The barge was larger than he’d expected, but the crew managed to muscle it into the dockyard without problems. London’s docks never slept; bright lights, powered by magic, illuminated the entire scene. It would have seemed impossible to a man living in the era that had birthed Professor Cavendish and Master Thomas, but it was real. Jack shrugged off his cloak, revealing the tunic of a stevedore underneath, and started to help the crew to unload the boxes mounted on the barge. The paperwork said that they were carrying foodstuffs from France; the aristocracy, no matter how much they might dislike the French, had a yearning for French food. If someone happened to examine the barge, there would be considerable embarrassment – and alarm. The boxes held something a great deal more harmful than French pastries and cheeses.
He carried one of the boxes into the warehouse and placed it down on the stone floor. A handful of his men gathered around the box, opening it up with giant crowbars, revealing the weapons hidden within. The French had done them proud; whatever else could be said about the French, their gunsmiths were the best in Europe. There were hundreds of rifles and pistols, a smaller number of machine guns – invented by the French and used on the Prussians, where they had changed the face of warfare – and a handful of cannons in the barge. They’d be scattered throughout London over the night, hidden away from watchful eyes. Even if one cache happened to be discovered, the remainder would be safe.
A smaller box was opened with care. It contained explosives, enough to blow up several large buildings. Jack knew that this one would have to be moved quickly, if only to ensure that no one realised what it contained. Rifles and pistols were one thing, but people tended to get nervous around explosives. It hadn’t been that long since Guy Fawkes had tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament. Master Thomas and the Dragoons wouldn’t have to get warrants to search the city if they suspected that the underground was concealing explosives somewhere within London. There would be absolute panic among the high and mighty.
Two hours passed slowly as the barge was unloaded and the various crates earmarked for different destinations. The business was legitimate; anyone who happened to cast an eye over its paperwork would see a receiving firm selling its services to a handful of smaller importing business that didn’t want to purchase their own warehouses in the docklands. Jack changed his clothes, posing as a security guard, and mounted one of the wagons as the horses were urged out onto the streets. That too wasn’t unusual in the docklands; indeed, many preferred to move their goods at night in hopes of avoiding the crowds. It was a fool’s hope outside the richer parts of town.
Jack watched dispassionately as the driver cracked his whip, moving the horses onwards. He’d never liked horses, even when he’d thought that the world made sense. They were nasty brutes; he’d never met one that hadn’t been skittish whenever he’d tried to climb into the saddle. Some dogs sensed magic on magicians – no one knew how – and some magicians had wondered if horses had their own version of the same sense. But Master Thomas had never had difficulty riding a horse. Absently, he wondered if Lady Gwen loved horses. It would fit in with what little he knew of her upbringing.
A group of footpads strolled out onto the streets, took a look at Jack and the other guards, and thought better of trying to hijack the wagon. Jack was almost disappointed. He preferred fighting with his fists – and clubs – to using magic, even though a skirmish on the streets risked attracting attention from the Bow Street Runners. The police might just think to enquire about what was in the wagon and then Jack would have to kill them, or risk losing his supply of weapons. And killing Runners would definitely attract attention.
He was still scowling as the wagon pulled up outside a furniture store. London still produced a fair number of skilled craftsmen, who produced handmade furniture for the nobility. It wouldn’t be long before technology drove them out of work, Jack was sure, just as it had done for many other once-traditional trades. They knew it, too. The craftsmen hated their masters with a passion unmatched by many others who had lost their jobs. Fear was a remarkable stimulant. The small crowd of apprentices appeared from the darkened building and started to unload the boxes. They’d keep what they saw to themselves. Their masters would see to that.
Jack nodded to the guards and slipped away, into the darkness. There was another small warehouse not too far away, officially owned by a Newcastle-based shipping company. It was guarded too, but the guards allowed Jack to enter the building once they recognised him. Inside, it was a small military base; the rebel soldiers had spread out their blankets on the stone floor, spending their days sleeping, eating and exercising. Boredom would be driving them out of their minds, but they’d be in London when the time came to strike. And, as far as they knew, they were the only group in the city. Jack knew that there were ten other buildings being prepared as advance bases for the rebellion.
He inspected the troops quickly and efficiently, before consulting briefly with their commander and slipping out of the rear entrance. The plan had worked well so far – almost perfectly – but the chances of exposure grew higher as he brought more and more of his people to London. A single mistake could alert the government and Lord Mycroft, at least, would understand the seriousness of the situation. Jack had thought about trying to assassinate him, but he was well protected and his brother would stop at nothing to hunt down his murderer. The last thing the rebels needed was London’s most famous consulting detective on their trail.
Outside, a wavering band of light was beginning to appear in the distance. Dawn was rising over the city. Jack pulled his cloak around him and levitated up to the rooftops,
starting the long walk back to the Rookery. Parts of the rooftops had been altered since the days when he used to sneak out of Cavendish Hall, he noted, almost regretfully. But he’d been a young man then, unaware of the price he would pay for his powers – and unaware of the price that others would pay. He almost missed a step and narrowly avoided plunging down off the roof with a touch of magic. Jack was in good shape, but he knew that he was no longer a young man. Life on the run had hardened him, yet it had exacted a toll.
He dropped down to the streets as he reached the edge of the more prosperous part of London. It was a short walk to the Rookery, one he had already determined would be walked on the ground. There might just be a chance for some excitement. He was almost disappointed until he walked past an alleyway and a hulking bravo stepped out, intent on causing trouble. Jack promptly beat the hell out of him with such vicious thoroughness that the bravo’s friends, hardly unused to violence, backed off and headed off at speed. The man Jack had beaten to within an inch of his life lay groaning in the gutter. Jack fought back the temptation to urinate on his body – though it would have reminded the bravo of his defeat – and headed onwards. No one else tried to block his path.
The memory made him smile as he walked into the Rookery. He felt little sympathy for the footpad. Instead of helping his fellow man, he had robbed them, taking money from those who had little and offering nothing in return, not even security. The beating would hopefully convince the bastard that there were changes coming, changes Jack intended would completely reshape the city. Or maybe the coward would just go to a brothel and take his temper out on a whore. The thought disgusted Jack. How could a man call himself a man when he beat a helpless and defenceless woman?
He entered Lucy’s brothel through the back window and walked into the lounge. Lucy was waiting for him – she never slept, as far as he could tell – a grim look in her eyes. Jack braced himself for the lecture he knew was coming. She never hesitated to tell him when she thought that he was being a fool.
“You were out there doing something stupid,” she said. She’d exploded in rage when she’d heard what Jack had done at Fairweather Hall. It would only provoke the high and mighty, she’d objected. That had been the point, Jack knew, but he’d kept that thought to himself. Lucy in a rage was more fearsome than much else. Any woman who could make her own way in a man’s world was formidable. “How many did you kill this time?”
“None,” Jack assured her. The bravo might not have survived his beating – particularly if one of his other victims took the opportunity to slit his throat – but he decided not to mention him. Lucy would not have seen the funny side. Starting a vendetta with the street gangs would only render their position insecure. “I watched Cavendish Hall and I located the farm.”
“Nicola will be glad to hear that,” Lucy said, coldly. She knew that he was hiding something, all right. “And do you think you can take the place?”
“Not at once,” Jack said. He finished removing his cloak and hung it neatly on a stand. Lucy would have told him off for leaving it anywhere else. “There are too many magicians on guard, even though they think that no one knows where it is.”
He remembered Lord Fitzroy and smiled, darkly. High Society would have crucified him – perhaps literally – if they’d discovered the true nature of his crimes. What would they do, he wondered, if they learned the truth behind the farm? All the little uncertainties and fears surrounding magic would explode at once. And then...who knew? It would present all manner of opportunities for the underground.
“They’ll be suspicious,” Lucy reminded him. “Master Thomas knows that you know, doesn’t he?”
Jack nodded, without speaking. That was not a memory he wanted to recall.
“Get some sleep,” Lucy ordered, standing up. “You’re going to need to be rested when you crash the party.”
“That’s two days away,” Jack said, but he obeyed. Lucy was right about the need for rest, even if he hadn’t fought his way through a group of sorcerers. If Master Thomas attended the birthday dinner, he’d have sorcerers backing him up. The handful of magicians with reliable precognition – insofar as precognition could be considered reliable – might have warned him about Jack’s plans. “You get some sleep too. I’ll see you in the evening.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Gwen,” a voice called. “How lovely to see you again.”
Gwen smiled as she clambered out of the carriage and up to the speaker. Laura Crichton was a short, rather plump girl with extensive family connections. Gwen’s father had arranged the match, but rather to everyone’s surprise it had worked out remarkably well. David – a rather stuffy person at the best of times – occasionally needed someone to prick his pomposity and Laura never took anything too seriously. Gwen rather liked her, even though they hadn’t had much time together since she’d married Gwen’s brother.
“And you,” Gwen said. Laura had been the closest thing she had to a real friend. They exchanged hugs as the carriage rattled away, to the back of the house where the coachmen would wait until they were summoned. “I trust that you have been taking care of my brother?”
Laura winked at her as she led Gwen into the gardens. “I’ve been doing more than that,” she said. She rubbed her abdomen meaningfully. “I think you may expect a newcomer to the family in the next five months.”
Gwen stared at her. “You’re pregnant?”
“Of course,” Laura agreed. She winked, again. “Your brother is quite enthusiastic between the sheets.”
Gwen blushed, bright red. She wasn’t ignorant, but she didn’t know everything about sex; it wasn’t a proper subject for young ladies. The textbooks she’d read over the years concealed and obfuscated rather than revealed, something that puzzled her. There were nurses and midwives working for a living; how were they meant to learn when their textbooks were actively misleading? And some of the misinformation had been easy to disprove. She’d only had to take a look in the mirror.
“Believe me, he is,” Laura said. Gwen’s blush deepened. Her mind refused to imagine her brother copulating, let alone her parents. There were some things that just couldn’t be thought about, at least not by her. Gwen’s parents had had their children, no doubt, by some neat method that didn’t involve bodily contact. “And he was looking forward to seeing you.”
Gwen shrugged. David had always been good to her, even if he had been dreadfully stuffy and reserved. He meant well, she knew, but she’d always found his lectures rather trying. Laura kept hold of her hand as they rounded the house and entered the gardens. A dozen tables had been placed on the grass. A number of people moving between them chatting to their fellow guests – and the birthday boy. Gwen’s smile deepened at the thought of David being called a boy. He was in his early thirties, old enough to have a household and career of his own. His path, she’d been led to understand, had already been mapped out for him. David would probably never rise to become Prime Minister, but it was quite possible that when he left the business world, he would find a seat in Parliament or even on the Cabinet.
She found herself attracting more than a few looks from the guests. In deference to her brother, she hadn’t worn the black dress that Master Thomas had had produced for her. Instead, she wore a simple green dress that had been cunningly tailored to allow her legs to move without constraint – and, if necessary, to allow her to rip the skirt free and move in her underclothes. It would cause comment – even if her underclothes would have served as perfectly decent clothing for someone from the lower orders – but at least she would be able to fight. No one had seen anything of the rogue Master since the attack on Fairweather Hall, yet everyone knew that he was still out there. God alone knew what he was thinking, or planning.
David Crichton, in Gwen’s sisterly perception, had been born old. She couldn’t remember a time when he had played in the mud with her, or chased her around the gardens when they’d both been younger – although, to be fair, there was fourteen years between them. He
was as tall as Gwen, with short blonde hair and a plain but not unhandsome face. Gwen noted, as he gave her a restrained hug, that he looked older than she remembered. It was all she could do not to check his head for signs of grey hair. But then, like their father, he would probably age well.
“Gwen,” he said, quietly enough so that the other guests couldn’t hear. “Thank you for coming.”
Gwen smiled, feeling oddly relieved. High Society wouldn’t have known what to make of a female magician – even though common sense told her that there would be a great many women with magician talents. And a woman who would find herself holding the most important magical position in the land...? They’d be torn between trying to ingratiate themselves with her and expressing their disapproval by shunning her. David wouldn’t let them get away with that at his own birthday party, at least. She was his sister, even though convention insisted that she should be married off by now and producing children. Girls always married sooner than boys.
“I couldn’t stay away,” she whispered, herself. “I heard about you and Laura...”
David seemed to stiffen, just slightly. He was still the same stuffy prude that Gwen remembered, even if he was a decent man under his demeanour. “We’re going to announce it today,” he said. “Laura just didn’t want you and mother to be surprised.”
The Royal Sorceress Page 20