Sons of Liberty

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “I would have thought you’d be able to protect yourselves,” she said. Were they holding back deliberately? “How did you fight on the docks?”

  “We didn't need a shield for more than a few seconds,” Harry explained. Beside him, Vernon merely grunted. “There was no need to hold it in place for long.”

  “You’ll have to learn,” Gwen said, unable to keep the tart note from her voice. She rubbed her forehead, cursing under her breath. Were there no other magicians, registered or not, in New York? Messengers had been sent to other cities, but she knew it would be a while before any other registered magicians could arrive. “The French will target you specifically.”

  She watched them go back to practicing, then glanced at Wayne. He didn't look pleased.

  “This isn't going to work,” he said, very quietly. “They have too much to unlearn.”

  Gwen winced, inwardly. She’d had things to unlearn too, although not as much as she might have feared. Her powers were far more versatile than any of her new recruits. But they had been using their powers - she heard another explosion from the direction of the blast wall and wondered if Fife was getting bored - without the training they needed. They weren't blank slates ...

  “There’s no choice,” she said. She had no idea how many magicians were on the French side of the border, massing near New Orleans, but she would bet her entire fortune that the French had sent a formidable force. If they couldn't take London, they’d try to take America. “We have to make it work.”

  “It won’t be easy,” Wayne said. “The brothers don’t like you and ...”

  If only I’d been born a man, Gwen thought, savagely. Master Thomas could have cowed them both into submission with a raised eyebrow. She could flatten them every day and she’d still have to watch her back. Bastards!

  She closed her eyes for a long moment, reaching out with her senses. There was no trace of Fife, somewhat to her surprise, but she had no trouble picking out the other magicians. The Movers were still practicing; the Blazers were slacking off and ...

  Her eyes snapped open. There was another magician nearby. They were being watched!

  Wayne frowned. “My Lady?”

  Gwen ignored him, looking around even as she probed with her senses. Had the other magician realised he’d been seen? She looked up towards the nearest tenement block, hunting desperately for the watcher. And then she saw him, lying on the roof ... watching them. He could have been there for hours!

  “Get them into the hall,” she ordered. Hopefully, they’d listen to Wayne. He was a man, after all. “I’m going hunting.”

  She wrapped her magic around her and threw herself into the air.

  Chapter Seventeen

  She ignored Wayne’s shout of surprise, behind her, as she hurled herself up towards the tenement block. The watcher was already scrambling to his feet, a dark-clad man wearing a cloak that reminded her of a monk’s garb. His face was hidden completely behind a mask, his hands wrapped in dark gloves. He ran backwards, out of sight, as Gwen reached the top of the building, casually dropping down a level on the other side of the block. Gwen dropped down to the rooftop and ran after him, wrapping her power around her ...

  The rooftop edge disintegrated. Gwen jumped upwards, alarmed, as bricks and dust launched themselves at her. A Mover, part of her mind noted, as she threw herself upwards rather than try to fend off the pieces of debris. The enemy, whoever he was, had less power than the brothers, but rather more skill. His power threw the pieces of debris up after her as she drifted over the edge of the rooftop. Below her, the masked man crouched on a metal staircase.

  “Stop,” Gwen snapped. “Stop in the name of ...”

  The pieces of debris slammed into her shield. She grunted, pushing them away from her with an effort, then swore as his magic caught hold of her and disrupted her hold on the air. Gwen dropped, sharply, grabbing hold of the metal as she passed to keep herself from falling to the ground. She snatched a fireball out of the air and threw it at him. It struck his shields and disintegrated, sending a wave of heat fanning through the air. She raised her hand to create a flash of light, but he looked away just in time.

  He must have been watching from the start, she thought. And he saw what I did to Vernon.

  Rage filled her. Frenchman or treasonous American, he had no right to watch her sorcerers slowly learning the ropes. She reached out and ripped at the staircase, pulling it away from the wall and sending him plummeting towards the ground. He caught himself in midair - Gwen cursed inwardly as she realised the newcomer could fly - then launched himself back upwards as she pelted him with debris and fireballs, his magic crumbling the remainder of the staircase. Gwen tossed herself back up into the air and landed on the remainder of the roof, feeling her magic curling around her. Her opponent landed on the nearest building and tossed her a jaunty salute, then jumped to the next building. And then the next.

  He wasn't flying, Gwen realised as she gave chase, even though he shouldn't have any problem taking to the air. She warned herself to be careful - Jack had lured her into a trap through allowing her to think she was running him down - but it looked as though her opponent was merely toying with her, rather than trying to fight or run. She hesitated, considering her options. Some of the nastier tricks she could do would inflict a great deal of harm on the city …

  “Stop,” Gwen said, lacing her voice with Charm. “No more magic.”

  His legs quivered, but otherwise he showed no reaction to the Charm. Instead, he lifted his hand and sent a wave of powerful magic at her, knocking her back and over the far side of the rooftop. Gwen caught herself and flew around the building, hoping to catch him by surprise, but when she popped up onto the rooftop he was nowhere to be seen. She landed carefully, looking around for his hiding place, yet she saw nothing. Another metal staircase was clearly visible on the far side of the rooftop, leading down into a dark alleyway. Gwen braced herself, then dived down and landed neatly on the pavement. But there was still no sign of her mystery opponent.

  Clever, she thought, ruefully.

  She sniffed the air and instantly regretted it - the alleyway smelt worse than a London alleyway - but kept looking around anyway. There was nothing to be seen, save for a handful of metal dustbins and a pile of rags on the ground. A clattering noise caught her attention, but when she spun around it turned out to be nothing more than a cat, clambering onto one of the dustbins. She eyed the cat suspiciously for a long moment, then told herself not to be silly. Werewolves were one thing, but no magician could turn into a cat!

  Impressive, she thought. She’d been bested - and that didn’t happen very often, certainly not by a single Mover. But he had to be very well trained, perhaps even trained to face her personally. His resistance to Charm had been strikingly powerful. Very impressive indeed.

  She walked to the end of the alleyway, straining her senses for even the tiniest flicker of her enemy’s presence and scowled as she peered out onto the street. It was crammed; horses and carriages making their way up and down the street, pedestrians walking, newsboys shouting out something about an exclusive. Hardly any of them paid attention to Gwen ... and there was no sign of her enemy. He’d slipped into the crowds and vanished. She looked up, just to make sure he wasn't clinging to the nearest building, but saw nothing.

  “Damn,” she said.

  She turned and walked back into the alleyway, trying to make her way back to the Sorcerers Hall. New York was oppressive at ground level, the buildings looming over her and making her feel small. London had plenty of tenement blocks too, but they were a little more spread out, even in places where the landlords worked hard to extract every last penny from their tenants. The shadows rose and fell around her, her imagination filling in too many possibilities for what could be lurking in the darkness. She caught sight of a man lying on the ground, his hand clutching a bottle and braced herself, before realising that it was just a drunk sleeping it off. Shaking her head, she walked o
nwards. Had she really gone that far from Sorcerers Hall? Or had she taken a wrong turning ...?

  The building came into view, just as she was considering taking to the air again. A gilded carriage was parked outside, guarded by a pair of men in army uniforms. They’d forsaken ceremonial garb, Gwen noted, as if they expected to go into battle at any time. That was not a reassuring sign. They eyed her doubtfully as she approached - God alone knew what they made of her - and then relaxed, slightly, as they recognised her.

  “Lady Gwen,” one said. “His Excellency is inside, waiting for you.”

  Gwen blinked. The Viceroy had come to Sorcerers Hall? As informal as the Americas were, she rather doubted it. Normally, a politician would send a request to visit - which, of course, would not be denied. Just walking into her territory without permission was an insult and Viceroy Rochester hadn't struck her as the kind of man who would offer insult, not without due cause. He had too many problems keeping the snake pit of politics in line without insulting his allies from England.

  “Thank you,” she said, tartly. Now the thrill of the chase had worn off, she wanted a bath, a cup of tea and a quiet sit down. She had the nasty feeling she wasn’t going to get any of them. “I’ll see him inside, shall I?”

  The mystery resolved itself as she stepped into the waiting room. Bruce Rochester, the Viceroy’s son, sat in the chamber, reading a newspaper and drinking a cup of tea. Gwen wondered why she hadn't considered the possibility, then remembered that she rarely dealt with the sons of powerful men. Lord Mycroft had no children, as far as she knew, and neither had Master Thomas. Although, admittedly, she’d often wondered if Jack had been Master Thomas’s son. He was definitely in the right age bracket.

  “Your Excellency,” Gwen said. As the Viceroy’s son, Bruce was entitled to the honorific as long as his father held the title. “What brings you to Sorcerers Hall?”

  Bruce rose to his feet and bowed, formally. “My father requests your immediate presence, Lady Gwen,” he said. “I have a carriage waiting outside.”

  Gwen thought fast. Rochester wouldn't have sent his son, of all people, to deliver a message unless it was so sensitive it couldn't be shared outside the family. But if all he wanted was for Gwen to attend upon him ... she shook her head. She was too tired to make sense of American politics, not now. Maybe she didn't have time for a bath - the message was clearly urgent - but at least she could splash some water on her face and have a quick word with Wayne.

  “I’ll be along in a moment,” she said. “I just have to use the facilities.”

  The mischievous devil in her wanted to see his reaction, but Bruce showed no hint of any response to her words. He’d grown up at the centre of politics, she reminded herself as she headed for the door. Learning to conceal his emotions and verbally dissemble would have been hammered into him from the moment he could walk. She walked up the stairs, washed her face hastily and glanced into the mirror. Her face still looked tired, but at least she looked more composed.

  She sent one of the servants to summon Wayne, then headed down into the office. A handful of files lay on the desk, reminding her that she had to read them at some point; she scowled as she realised she would have to do rather more paperwork than she liked to do, just to keep her files in order. But then, when was she supposed to find the time? There just weren't enough hours in the day to train the sorcerers, let alone fill out their paperwork ...

  “My Lady,” Wayne said. “The blighter got away?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Gwen said. She hoped he wouldn't hold it against her, but it was probably a forlorn hope. Maybe she should have risked something nastier than Charm. “He’s a Mover of great skill, I think. Much better than either of the brothers.”

  Wayne frowned. “Better than you?”

  “He has more awareness of his talent,” Gwen said, reluctantly. Any single-talent magician would be more familiar with the strengths and weaknesses of his power than one who had access to all the talents. “And he has a great deal of raw power too.”

  She cursed under her breath. The rogue was a complete unknown. If he dumped his cloak and mask in the nearest dustbin, he could just stride off with her none the wiser. Or maybe he’d just hopped into a passing carriage and threatened the driver to take him halfway across the city. In that case, there was probably a dead cabbie somewhere in the city, murdered after he had outlived his usefulness. And someone with that sort of raw power could easily get into the Viceregal Palace and assassinate the Viceroy ...

  “I’ve been summoned to the Palace,” she said, instead. “Keep them training, as much as you can. I have a feeling it’s bad news.”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Wayne said.

  Gwen watched him leave the office, then picked up her cane and hurried back to the waiting room. Bruce was reading one of the books the hall’s former inhabitants had left behind, a tacky romance featuring handsome aristocratic men, beautiful aristocratic girls and almost as many social mishaps and misunderstandings as happened in real life. Men might sneer at how the women in the books treated the question of marriage as a matter of life or death, but to them it was a matter of life or death. The wrong husband would doom them to a hellish existence they would be fortunate indeed to escape.

  “My Lady,” Bruce said. “Shall we go?”

  “Of course,” Gwen said.

  She allowed him to lead her to the carriage, thinking rapidly. The French, whatever their other flaws, didn't tend to take the risk of assassinating British politicians. There would be certain retaliation, after all; Britain might survive losing a king or even a dynasty, but would the Bourbons feel the same way? The only thing that held France and Spain together, save for mutual hatred of the British, was the House of Bourbon. If King Louis and his heir were to die, what would happen to their empire?

  But the Americans - if the rogue was an American - might think differently. Viceroy Rochester wasn't a king. If he died, London would have to send out a new Viceroy, one who would have to learn the ropes under a great deal of pressure. He’d make mistakes, Gwen thought; offend the wrong people, alienate his natural allies ... the Sons of Liberty might make great gains if they murdered the Viceroy. But, at the same time, they’d also weaken the defences of British North America. The French might gain control of the colonies without a major struggle.

  “I was surprised to hear that you weren't in the hall,” Bruce said, as the carriage jolted into motion. “Why did you leave?”

  “I’ll explain that to your father,” Gwen said. What was she supposed to do about the rogue magician? He was very definitely powerful and experienced enough to break into the Viceregal Palace and assassinate the Viceroy, but she didn’t have the manpower to provide additional bodyguards. “It's a long story.”

  She looked him in the eye. “Why the sudden summons?”

  “I don’t know,” Bruce said. He shrugged in a manner David had been fond of using before their father beat it out of him. “Father ordered me to go to the hall and bring you back to the palace.”

  “Something must have happened,” Gwen said. She felt a cold pit of fear deep in her chest; a rogue magician, one powerful enough to evade her, and now an urgent summons. It boded ill for the future. “Did he say nothing?”

  “He was sending out other messengers too,” Bruce said. “I don’t think it’s another ball.”

  Gwen felt her lips thin in irritation. Another ball? She was supposed to work with the Viceroy, but if he’d dragged her away from her duties so she could attend another ball ... she was going to give him a piece of her mind. Girl or not, she had a job to do and she was going to do it. But it was unlikely, she told herself firmly. The local aristocracy would complain, loudly, if the Viceroy held two balls in such quick succession. No one else would have a chance to host a ball for themselves.

  “Tell me something,” she said. “What do you want to do with your life?”

  Bruce shrugged, indolently. “There’s nothing I can do,” he said, dryl
y. “I certainly can't hope to match my father.”

  That, Gwen knew, was probably true. Viceroyalties did not run in families. Spain had experimented with making the Viceroy of Mexico a hereditary post, only to discover that the viceroys had begun to think of themselves as kings, rather than the king’s servants. Bruce would be a landed aristocrat, when his father died, but he would never be a Viceroy. He would never wield the autocratic powers of his family ...

  “You could join the army,” she said, instead. His family would certainly be able to buy him a commission, although the Duke of India would probably insist on some training before Bruce tried to take command of a regiment. Too many wealthy incompetents bought their commissions and then tried to take command in the middle of a battle. “You could certainly carve out a name for yourself.”