Authors: Shanna Swendson
Tags: #YAF060000 YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Steampunk; YAF019040 YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Fantasy / Historical; YAF058030 YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Social Themes / Class Differences
Rebel Magisters
REBEL MAGISTERS
Shanna Swendson
To all the librarians who fell in love with
Rebel Mechanics
and shared it with readers.
Note from the Author
This novel is a work of alternate history. Adding magic to the mix meant that events didn’t play out the way they appear in history books. Some things are entirely different, and some things are happening at different times or in different places. Figuring out where the real history might fit in is part of the fun.
NEW YORK CITY
1888
REBELS FLEE CITY,
ESCAPE MAGISTER PERSECUTION
By Liberty Jones
The Rebel Mechanics made a daring last-minute escape from a magister sweep, safely removing all their machines from the city, one step ahead of the redcoats.
Acting on a tip from a well-placed source, the rebels vanished as if by magic, leaving the authorities baffled. Imperial soldiers made a house-by-house search of the entire neighborhood surrounding the Mechanics’ alleged headquarters in an attempt to round up the rebel leadership and their machines, but the wily Mechanics outwitted them yet again.
WHERE ARE THE REBEL MECHANICS?
LEADERS VOW TO CONTINUE FIGHT
By Elizabeth Smith
In the weeks since their dramatic escape, the Rebel Mechanics have set up headquarters in an undisclosed location outside the city, out of reach of the British authorities.
The leaders say that while the rebels and their astonishing machines may be out of sight, they are even more focused on the cause of liberty. “The revolution is coming, you can count on that,” said one rebel leader, who must remain anonymous for his own safety. “We just believe we can prepare better without having to watch our backs all the time. When it starts, you’ll know it.”
In Which
Friends Come
to My Aid
I made my way through the greenmarket, pausing from time to time to examine a shiny gourd or plump pumpkin. After chatting with a farmer, I purchased some apples and tucked them into my basket. I hadn’t noticed anyone watching me, but it never hurt to be cautious and act as normal as possible, these days. Finally, I reached the stall that was my true destination.
“How are you this morning, miss?” the young Indian woman working at the stall said in her musical accent as I approached. Someone would have had to be watching us very closely, indeed, to catch her minute flicker of a wink.
“Very well, thank you,” I replied with a polite nod as I moved past the stall.
She jumped out in front of me, impeding my progress. “I have many very fine vegetables and exotic fruits to offer you today, miss,” she said. “My biggest customer is not buying nearly the same amount. And you benefit.”
“How fortunate for me,” I said with a weary sigh, giving in and stopping at her stall.
As we bent together over the bins of fruit so she could help me make my selection, she whispered, “The military has dramatically reduced next week’s order. Unless they’ve found a different supplier, it looks as though they might be moving out.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. We completed our transaction, and I visited a few more stalls before leaving the market to head farther downtown, toward Chinatown. There I went to a particular laundry and made sure the right person was behind the counter before I took the paper-wrapped bundle out of my basket.
The girl working there was about my age, with a sleek, fat braid hanging over her shoulder, tied with a red ribbon that was the only spot of color on her otherwise gray outfit. She saw me and smiled, but her smile faded instantly when the door opened behind me and another patron entered—a military officer in uniform.
Disregarding me entirely, he advanced straight to the counter and demanded, “Is my order ready?”
“Your name, please?” she said meekly, exaggerating a Chinese accent I knew she didn’t normally have. He handed her a ticket, and she scurried to the back room. Only then did he appear to notice my presence. I gave him a half smile of acknowledgment that didn’t invite further interaction, to which he responded with a cursory nod. The girl returned with a bundle and gave it to him, bowing deferentially. He went to the end of the counter to open the bundle and inspect its contents.
It looked as though he would be there for a while, and if I tarried longer without conducting any business, I would raise suspicions, so I approached the counter with my bundle.
“So sorry,” the girl said. “It will take one week. Very busy right now. Officers choose us to do their laundry.” She flashed a brief smile at her other customer as she said it and squared her shoulders proudly.
“I suppose that will be all right,” I said. “I know the military must take precedence.”
She took my bundle and made a show of filling out a ticket for me, even though we both knew that the “laundry” consisted of a stack of banknotes that would be passed on to the underground rebel movement. I put the ticket in my purse, and the soldier managed to get to the door just in time to open it for me. I nodded a thanks and went on my way.
That had been a close call, but I had to grin at the thrill of passing money from the Masked Bandits to the Rebel Mechanics right under the nose of a British officer without him having the slightest idea of what was happening. Now, in the aftermath, my heart started racing. If I’d followed Henry’s instructions, I would have left rather than take the risk, but I thought it would have looked even more suspicious if I’d entered a laundry without handing over or retrieving anything.
Now, though, my thoughts were on the intelligence I’d gathered. If the officers were suddenly sending out a lot of laundry that they needed done immediately and if the army wasn’t ordering as much food, that surely meant they were removing some of the troops from the city. Perhaps since the departure of the Rebel Mechanics and their machines the authorities had decided that the rebellion had been quashed.
That sounded like a story to me, so I went straight to a coffee shop on Greenwich Square. It was a popular gathering place for the students at the nearby university, but in recent weeks it had been filled with soldiers who were being quartered in the university halls. Today, though, it was much quieter. The waitress who met me at the door gave me a knowing nod before escorting me to a table.
“It seems so quiet in here today,” I said. “What happened, did you drive away all your customers?”
“It sure seems like it,” she said. “Maybe all the soldiers wanted tea.”
To be perfectly honest, what I wanted was a nice cup of tea, but thanks to taxes on tea, that was something the rebels never drank, out of protest. I supposed it would have been a good cover to order it, but I might have lost the loyalty of the waitress if I’d done so. As deep as I was in the rebel movement, there were nuances I still struggled to grasp.
Instead, I ordered lemonade and a slice of cake. While I waited for the waitress to return with my food and drink, I took a couple of sheets of paper and a pencil out of my basket and went to work. I doubted that any of the other patrons were watching me, but if they were, I thought I must look for all the world like a young woman writing a letter.
What I wrote was a short news article speculating on the departure of the British troops and what it meant for the rebel movement. It was close to the deadline for the next day’s edition, but I thought I could make it if I hurried. I finished the article while absently sipping lemonade and nibbling cake, gave it one last read, and folded it up, placing it against my palm as I put my gloves back on.
Now all I needed to do was drop it off and then I could return home before the girls were through with their art and music lessons. I left the café and turned toward the hat shop that was the nearest drop-off point for the rebels.
Before I reached the end of the block, I had the strongest feeling that I wasn’t alone. Although I had that itchy sensation between my shoulder blades that told me someone was watching me, I didn’t dare turn around to look. It was absolutely imperative that I gave no one any reason to suspect me. I was merely an anonymous young woman, out running errands. Now I regretted my impatience to write the article. If I’d waited until I was home and left it at the nearest drop, the article might have been delayed a day, but I wouldn’t have had anything incriminating on me.
I stopped at a street corner and waited to cross to the opposite side. Looking both ways for oncoming traffic allowed me to see whatever—or whomever—was behind me. The sidewalk wasn’t so crowded that any one person could blend into the background, and there was one person who didn’t quite fit in this part of town, which was mostly populated by students, and lately by soldiers. He had the look of a government functionary: gray suit, bowler hat, nondescript face. I thought he might have been in the café, but he was so unremarkable that I couldn’t truly be sure. He stood nonchalantly against a lamppost, but I’d have bet he was the one watching me.
But why would he follow me? I hadn’t done anything suspicious. All I could think was that one of my contacts was being watched, and therefore anyone else who dealt with her would also be watched, at least for a little while. Had he followed me to the café, or had I only come to his attention there? My real worry was that he had followed me from the laundry. If he knew what was in that bundle, I couldn’t let him connect me with my employer.
To throw him off my trail, I darted across the street at the first sign of a clear path and entered the first shop I encountered. It was a candy store, which seemed innocuous enough, and the shopgirl wasn’t part of my network. I bought a couple of pennies’ worth of candy for the children and left the store. Out of the corner of my eye, I noted that the man in gray was still there.
There was a ribbon shop nearby, but I was known there, for my employer rather than my covert activities. I passed the shop, going instead to a different one that the Lyndon family didn’t patronize. There I bought a yard of blue ribbon I thought might look nice with my hair, if I ever wore it down rather than in a no-nonsense bun.
As I came out of the shop, before I could look for the gray man, I thought I saw another familiar face—or, rather, familiar hair, a shock of bright red curling out from under a shabby top hat.
Colin?
I wondered. But he was out of town with the rest of the Rebel Mechanics. I walked right past him without a second glance, hoping that if it was, indeed, Colin, he would get the message and not speak to me.
At the next intersection, I found that the gray man was still there. I didn’t dare drop off my article or go home while I was being watched. Ahead of me I saw a shop that I thought might do the trick. No gentleman would follow a lady into a lingerie shop. To be honest, I was a little bashful about entering such a place.
The air in the establishment was lightly scented with lavender, which calmed my nerves somewhat. All around me were concoctions of lace and silk. There were corsets and petticoats, as well as nightgowns that made my serviceable muslin gown look rather dowdy in comparison.
The shopgirl approached me with a grin. “Let me guess, you’ve got a man problem, and you want something to make you feel better.”