Sons of Liberty (32 page)

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 - but 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.”

“
No one would believe that,” Bruce said. “It’s ... madness.”

“
Never underestimate just how many foolish things people can believe,” Gwen said, rather crossly. The cartoons of her turning her enemies into frogs or pigs would have been amusing, if they hadn't made it harder for her to talk to people. And she couldn't turn a man into a pig, although some of them were definitely halfway there. “The French won’t really care who believes them, as long as they have a rationale for occupying the colonies after the war.”

“
True,” Jackson said. “Lady Gwen, we will be relying on you to hunt this rogue down. Put training in Wayne’s hands and find the bastard!”

“
I will,” Gwen said. She wasn't looking forward to the fight, but now she knew what she was facing ... she’d bet good money that the rogue had never faced another Master, while she’d faced two. But then, Master Thomas had beaten her handily. “I won’t let you down.”

She started at the loud rapping on the door.

“Come in,” Jackson called.

A messenger entered, his face flushed. “Message for you, Your Grace,” he said, passing it to Jackson. “Captain Vine says its urgent.”

“
Your Grace,” Jackson repeated. He took the envelope and unfolded it, slowly. “When did I get promoted?”

Gwen shook her head, too tired to feel amused. Jackson was minor nobility, very minor nobility. There was no way he should be addressed as ‘Your Grace ...’

“
Shit,” Jackson swore. He seemed to have completely forgotten that he shouldn't be swearing in Gwen’s presence. “That’s not good.”

Gwen felt a thrill of alarm. “What’s not good?”

“
It’s a report from one of the scouting parties,” Jackson said, grimly. “The French have attacked the railways and destroyed a great deal of the track, including one of the bridges. It won’t be easy to repair.”

“And until it is repaired,” Gwen breathed, “we’re trapped.”

“
Find that rogue,” Jackson ordered. “And not a word to anyone about the railway lines.”

It will leak, Gwen thought, as she headed for the door. The railway was their only link to the remainder of the colonies. Rumours would spread at terrifying speed. And then all hell will break loose.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“
You appear to be a doing a good job,” Joan said, reluctantly. Her gaze swept the pile of clean dishes and mugs, then wandered back to Raechel. “Barely.”

Raechel groaned. She’d never realised just how hard the maids had to work until she'd tried some of their duties for herself. Washing dishes, even pewter and tin dishes rather than fine china, was boring, even sickening. But it was better than washing clothes. She’d learned more in the last two days about disgusting male habits than she’d ever wanted to know.

“
Thank you,” she said, careful to keep her voice even. Joan was just waiting for her to make a mistake, she could tell. “Are there more coming?”

“
There are things to clean every day,” Joan said, dryly. Raechel felt her cheeks heat at her tone. “But for the moment, you can go get yourself something to eat.”

Raechel nodded and hurried off to the dining hall before Joan could change her mind. The older woman seemed determined to work her until her hands were worn down to the bone, even though Raechel hadn't uttered a word of complaint. When she wasn’t cleaning dishes - or clothes - she was peeling potatoes, boiling water or catching a handful of desperately needed hours of sleep. If she ever managed to get back to London, she promised herself, she was going to make damn sure the maids got a raise. And if her aunt dared to question her decision, Raechel would make sure she never saw a single penny of her father’s fortune.

She pushed the thought aside as she stepped into the dining hall. The darkened room was crammed with tables and reeking of tobacco smoke, the men - and some of the women - smoking heavily while they ate. There were dozens of men at the tables, sucking down bowls of stew before they went back to training; a handful of women, sitting with them, looked surprisingly dangerous for the fairer sex. Raechel couldn't help thinking that Irene would have liked them, if only for their skill at projecting an image. They wanted - needed - the men to take them seriously.

“
Raechel,” a voice called. “Come join us?”

Raechel smiled. John was a young man, one of the handful she’d seen in the recruitment centre in New York before they’d been transported to the barge. He was a tradesman by birth, he’d explained, but he hadn’t been able to set up a shop of his own because of the government’s regulations. Raechel was surprised the Sons had allowed him to train as a soldier - his skills would surely be of more use elsewhere - but men liked their pride. No doubt they’d offered John the chance to be something useful and he’d declined.

“
Coming,” she called back. “Just let me get some food.”

She took a plate of strew and bread from the cooks - she hated to think what her aunt would have thought of the meal, although it was cheap and surprisingly tasty - and hurried over to John. The handful of young men with him smiled as she sat down, their gazes flickering over her breasts before looking away, hastily. Irene had warned her to expect everything from ribald commentary to outright groping, but the Sons had strict rules against any form of harassment. They were clearly serious about using women as well as men.

“
It’s been a while,” John said. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

Two days, more or less, Raechel thought. But I suppose I barely saw you on the barge.

“
Cooking and cleaning, mostly,” she admitted. The Sons had promised firearms training for the women, but it was clear that their training was secondary. “And you?”

“I can now hit a target with a rifle,” John said.

“
Provided it’s stuck to the muzzle,” another young man said, quickly. “The trick is to keep up a steady volley of fire, not to try to hit something.”

Raechel rather doubted her father, a keen sportsman, would have agreed, but she kept that thought to herself as the men argued cheerfully. John insisted he could actually shoot straight; two other men insisted that he didn't have a hope in hell of actually hitting anything unless it was at very close range. It wasn't the sort of discussion she wanted to hear, but she honestly didn't know how to change the subject. Men always liked talking about guns and shooting, in her experience. Some of the worst bores in the aristocracy talked of nothing else.

“
So,” another man said. “When do you think we’ll go to New York?”

“
When the boss says its time,” a third man said. He was older; Raechel rather suspected he was the training officer. “We don’t want to tip our hand too early.”

“
Yeah,” a fourth man said. “And we don’t want to lose the chance of winning without fighting.”

“
Chancy,” John said. “Do you think the Viceroy will give up without a fight?”