“There are spare clothes in the rear cabinet, so take what you need from there,” Joan instructed. “Washing clothes is a communal activity here, so put any dirty clothes in the basket. Do you know how to wash your own clothes?”
“No,” Raechel said.
“You’re going to have to learn,” Joan said. “We do all of the washing in this camp; clothes, plates ... you name it, we wash it.”
Her face twisted suddenly. “I know where you came from, Lady Raechel,” she added. “And I assure you that there are no servants here! No one is going to spoil you or do your work for you. You will make your own bed, you will prepare your own water to wash, you will cook, clean and do other chores I assign to you as part of your duties. If you fail to pull your weight, I will take steps. Do you understand me?”
“It’s better than being married off,” Raechel said.
Joan snorted. “You’ll be the first noble bitch to think that,” she sneered. She pointed to the scar on her face. “Do you know how I got this scar?”
Raechel shook her head.
“A young brat like you thought it would be funny to tell her father I stole from the family,” Joan hissed. “Her father beat me, then took his knife to my face to brand me a thief before he threw me out onto the streets. One word out of you, one hint of reluctance to earn your keep and I will cut your pretty face until even the whores won’t want you.”
She glared at Raechel, then nodded to the washroom. “You’re stinking,” she added, in a tone that made Raechel flinch. She believed every word. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Wash, dress and get ready to go out. You have potatoes to peel.”
“I will,” Raechel said.
Joan snorted rudely, then turned and stalked off. Raechel shuddered - somehow, she knew Joan had meant every word - and then turned to find her new clothes. Twenty minutes ... it would have to be long enough. And if it wasn't ...
I got into the camp, she told herself, firmly. And now I have to survive long enough to find out what I need to know and get out again.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Well done,” Gwen said. “You caught all of the bullets.”
She lowered the gun and smiled at Vernon, who eyed her darkly. Two days of practicing in Amherst had made him far better at shielding himself, although Gwen had the private suspicion that a better-trained Mover - like the rogue - would be able to stab a needle through Vernon’s magic. But it was very definitely an improvement. Vernon shouldn't have any problems tearing through a force of Frenchmen, as long as they didn't have any magicians supporting them.
And if they do, she added privately, matters may become rather sticky.
“I knew you could do it,” Harry said. He clapped his hands as Gwen reloaded the gun. “I don’t think we need to go back to the docks.”
“The docks were safe,” Vernon muttered.
Gwen kept her expression under tight control. She wasn't sure if he was complaining for the sake of complaining or if he meant every word. The docks didn't normally include enemy soldiers shooting at the workers, yet a single accident could kill a man - or cripple him for life. Lucy had Healed a number of men who’d been raced to Cavendish Hall in time, but very few supervisors bothered to make the effort. Dockyard workers were cheap.
“And we’re making far more here,” Harry reminded him. “Just think of what you can buy when we get back home.”
“Lady Gwen,” a new voice called.
Gwen turned to see a messenger standing by the gate. There was no Sorcerers Hall in Amherst - an oversight that perplexed her - so she’d taken over an abandoned townhouse that had belonged to one of the former mayor’s cronies. She had no idea who the crony had been, but he’d fled Amherst before the mayor himself, taking his wife, children and slaves with him. Thankfully, the garden was large enough to give the magicians room to practice.
“I’m over here,” she said, striding towards the gate. “What do you have for me?”
The messenger stood straighter. “Lieutenant Travis’s compliments, Lady Gwen,” he said, his voice stuttering slightly. Up close, he looked no older than fourteen. “He requests your immediate presence. I’m to escort you to his position.”
Gwen nodded, slowly. Once he was no longer in overall command, Lieutenant Travis had blossomed. She had a feeling he’d be promoted in the very near future, if only to ensure that there were experienced officers on the ground. Most of the officers who’d accompanied Colonel Jackson were as unfamiliar with America as Jackson himself.
“I’m on my way,” she said.
She called for Wayne and told him to continue training, then motioned for the messenger to lead her to the horse and open carriage. Colonel Jackson had managed to clear most of the streets by opening abandoned houses and turning them over to the refugees - while conscripting male refugees to build barricades and dig trenches - but there were still dozens of people on the streets. Gwen wasn't too surprised to see a line of ladies of ill repute, plying their trade among the soldiers, militiamen and volunteers. Colonel Jackson had strictly limited the consumption of alcohol, pointing out that it would be needed to treat wounds, but he’d done nothing about prostitution. Trying, Gwen suspected, would merely have driven it underground.
And that would have made matters worse for the prostitutes, she thought, grimly. What else can we do?
She shook her head. Jackson had rounded up hundreds of women for emergency training in first aid - no one doubted that there would be a great many wounded, once the French finally attacked - but there was little else he could do. Indeed, he was working hard to get the children out of the city, shipping them up the rail lines to Philadelphia. God knew it was going to be a major headache, Gwen knew, reuniting the children with their parents after the war. But there was no choice. Children were simply more useless mouths to feed.
The carriage rattled to a halt. Lieutenant Travis was standing by the roadside, surrounded by a handful of redcoats. The soldiers looked as though they were trying to be discreet, although Gwen didn't know who they thought they were fooling. Men in red uniforms - Jackson insisted it was so the blood didn't show - tended to be far too obvious anywhere. She dropped down to the street and nodded to Lieutenant Travis.
“There’s a Son hideout down the street,” he said, quietly. Too quietly. Gwen could barely hear him. “The Colonel wants the bas ... ah, pardon me ... the buggers alive.”
Gwen nodded, shortly. The Sons of Liberty had responded to Jackson’s warnings with quiet defiance. Leaflets had been popping up everywhere, calling for Americans to refuse British orders and stay out of the fighting. Jackson had had every printer in town investigated for sedition, but none of them appeared guilty. No one had any idea where the leaflets were coming from. The best guess was that the Sons had a printer of their own working somewhere within the city.
“Then we go in fast and hard,” she said, grimly. Travis coloured, slightly. “They may already know we’re here.”
Travis nodded and drew his sidearm. “I’ll take the lead.”
“I will,” Gwen corrected him. She knew he ran the risk of losing face by allowing her to go first, but better for him to lose face than his life. Her magic provided a layer of protection he couldn't hope to match. “Deploy your men to cut off any escape, then follow behind me.”
She walked down towards the house, carefully preparing her magic. The house appeared silent, but that proved nothing. There might well be another magician inside, confusing her senses. And even if there wasn't, thick stone walls would make it hard for her senses to pick up anything.
If Travis is wrong about this, she thought, someone is going to get badly hurt.
She braced herself, then reached out with her magic and yanked the door right off its hinges, tossing it across the street. “Don’t move,” she shouted, projecting as much Charm as she could into her voice. If she was lucky, the Sons would be unable to move longer enough for Travis and his men to grab them. “Don’t ...”<
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The entire front of the house disintegrated, sending a tidal wave of debris flying through the air and right into her protections. Gwen swore - she hadn't sensed the magic until it was far too late - and threw up a shield, covering herself and her escorts. Lieutenant Travis barked a command at a dark figure, standing just inside the building, but he ignored it. Gwen cursed again as the figure hurled himself into the air, landing neatly on the next building’s rooftop and waving at her. It had to be the same magician she’d faced earlier.
Lieutenant Travis pointed his sidearm at the rogue and fired. Gwen was impressed with his skill - firing a handgun accurately was far from easy - but she could have told him it would be useless. The bullet pinged off the rogue’s magic and fell harmlessly to the ground. Gwen gritted her teeth and send a wave of fire towards him, threatening to incinerate his perch. He struck a dramatic pose - she couldn't help being reminded of Jack - and launched himself back into the air, daring her to follow him. She pushed the flames up instead, but they merely sputtered along the edge of his protections.
“Give up,” Gwen shouted at him, lacing her voice with Charm for the second time. “There’s no way out.”
The rogue laughed and pointed a finger towards the damaged house. Gwen’s jaw dropped as he shot a pulse of magic into the house, then she instinctively threw out another shield. The house exploded, the force of the blast slamming into her shield and hurling her and Lieutenant Travis right across the road. She sensed the death of the soldier who’d escorted them, caught in the blast before she could shield him too. Shock held her frozen for a second, just long enough for the rogue to make a getaway. She hurled herself into the air, trying to catch sight of him, but saw nothing. He could have vanished in any direction ...
A Master, she thought, numbly. She’d thought she was facing a Mover, but she’d just seen him use a second talent. A third too, perhaps; her Charm had been completely ineffectual on him. He’s a Master.
She looked back at the pile of smoking rubble, all that remained of the house. It had to have been a powder store, she thought, despite her confusion and horror. He’d deliberately blown it up to keep them from recovering anything and using it to defend the city ...
And he’s a Master, she thought. Her thoughts chased themselves round and round. She’d assumed, after Jack’s death, that she was the lone surviving Master Magician. But she had clearly been wrong. Dear God in Heaven. He’s a Master.
Lieutenant Travis came up behind him. “That ... could have gone better.”
He didn't see it, Gwen realised. She wanted to shout at him, to make him understand, but she knew she couldn't take the risk. Very few people understood how magic worked, how each magician - save for the Masters - had only one talent. If she told him that ... someone ... a Son of Liberty, perhaps, had the same power as she did, what would he make of it?
“Yes, it could have,” she said. She rather doubted the soldiers would be able to pull anything useful from the remains of the house, but they’d have to try. “I have to go back to City Hall.”
“I’ll assign you an escort,” Lieutenant Travis said.
“Don’t bother,” Gwen said. “I’ll be fine on my own.”
She turned and walked off before he could muster an objection, thinking hard. The rogue had clearly been a young man, from the way he’d moved; he was probably not more than a few years older than her. Jack had been older by at least ten years ... had he trained another Master in France? Or had the rogue learned from single-talent magicians instead? Was he American or French? Gwen had no illusions of just how quickly the Royal Sorcerers Corps would have embraced another Master, even one of humble origins. Fatheads like Major Shaw would not have hesitated to follow a male Master ...
Even an American, she thought, as she reached City Hall. They’d be delighted to have a man back in command.
She lifted her eyebrows as she was shown into Jackson’s office. Bruce was sitting in front of the desk, reporting on his latest attempt to build morale in the city by holding a number of small parties and balls. Gwen rather suspected that it was completely futile, but at least it kept Bruce out of her hair. Jackson seemed rather more interested than she would have expected, too. But then, he needed support from the Viceroy if he were to be confirmed as General Kingsley’s permanent successor.
“We have a problem,” she said, without preamble. “A big problem.”
Jackson looked up. “Worse than the snipers harassing our foraging parties?”
“Yes,” Gwen said, flatly. She didn't want to admit to losing the rogue for a second time, but she had no choice. “The enemy has a very competent magician at their disposal.”
She outlined everything that had happened since she’d been summoned, explaining the difference between a normal magician and the rogue when Jackson seemed baffled by some of her terms. Bruce listened, not saying a word. Gwen was almost relieved. The last thing she wanted, right now, was to have to slap him down for upper-class idiocy.
“I see,” Jackson said, when she had finished. “Are you sure it’s the same magician?”
“I think so,” Gwen said. “His magic ... felt ... identical. The cloak and outfit was identical too.”
“And he followed us down here,” Jackson said. “Or did he fly?”
“If he flew so far in such a short space of time ...”
Gwen shook her head. Flying from Cambridge to London had nearly killed her, back when the Swing was reaching its height. And that had been a mere sixty miles, more or less. If the rogue could go faster and further than her, she was in big trouble. Indeed, if the rogue was that much more powerful, she could expect an attack at any moment. Taking her off the board would be a valuable achievement in its own right.
Master Thomas didn't have problems flying to London, she thought, recalling how the older man had flown without effort. But he had a secret advantage of his own.
She glared down at her hands, cursing the old man under her breath. How many secrets had been lost because he’d never shared them with her, or written them down somewhere in his archive? Doctor Norwell worked hard to make her write down everything, but he’d clearly not done the same for Master Thomas. And who knew what the other Masters had been able to do? Jack might have had secrets of his own too.
“This is not good news,” Jackson said. “We’ve lost hundreds, perhaps thousands, of weapons that were issued to the militia. A handful going on walkabout would be understandable, perhaps, but not hundreds. And a number of militia officers remain unaccounted for, too. If they’ve joined the Sons, Lady Gwen, the other officers may be unreliable.”
“So we’re exposed here,” Gwen finished. “Holding the line may be impossible.”
“Different, perhaps, but not impossible,” Jackson snapped. “The French will have to storm the city, almost as soon as they arrive. It will be difficult for the Sons to launch a coup in all the confusion.”
“Unless they launch the coup before the French arrive,” Gwen said.
“The timing would be tricky,” Jackson said. “They’d have to take the city and hold it, despite counterattacks.”
“But there aren't any other significant British forces for a very long way,” Gwen said. “If we lose Amherst ...”
Jackson glared at the map. “What are they thinking?”
He muttered a word Gwen was sure she wasn’t meant to hear. “If they rise up against us, the French win the war,” he said. “But the French won’t give the Sons their liberty, not after the way they treated the anarchists in 1789. They called it a whiff of grapeshot, remember?”
Gwen nodded. It had been long before her birth, but she’d learned about it from one of her more interesting tutors. The French monarchy - before the union with Spain - had suffered a brief crisis, with mobs coming out onto the streets. But King Louis had kept his nerve and greeted the mobs with cannon fire. No one was sure just how many people had died - Gwen had seen estimates ranging from a few hundred to millions - bu
t it had been more than enough to slap the French anarchists down for years. And by the time they’d started to raise their heads again, the government had not only united with the Spanish, but established a far more capable domestic intelligence service. There had been no anarchist attacks in France for decades.
“The Sons will be destroyed, after conveniently doing the dirty work of destroying the colonial government,” Jackson said. “It isn't as if the French don’t have people who want to live here” - he waved a hand towards the distant plantations - “and rule in their stead. The Sons will never get the freedom they want.”
“They may even claim they were doing the British government a favour,” Gwen added. “The anarchists threaten everything.”
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