Sons of Liberty (2 page)

... And was sent careening into the air as Sir James slammed into him, his magic smashing right into the Frenchman’s protections. He caught himself and hung in midair, glaring down at his new foe. Gwen forced herself to summon another spark of magic, then nodded to Sir James. The Mover yanked on the Frenchman’s shields, pulling them open long enough for Gwen to hit the Frenchman with a pulse of magic. His body and power disintegrated in the same instant, leaving pieces of blood and gore to fall over the battlefield. Gwen stumbled to her knees almost as soon as the enemy died. Darkness flickered at the corner of her eyes, threatening to pull her down. She hadn’t pushed herself so hard since the Swing.

Where I nearly died, she reminded herself, as she heard the sound of running footsteps. And I would have died, if Jack hadn't saved me from Master Thomas.

“
Drink this,” Sir James said. He pushed a canteen against her lips. Gwen sipped, tasting water and a hint of whiskey. “Do you want to withdraw?”

Gwen scowled at him. Sir James didn't have to worry about being thought a weak and feeble woman, even if she did have the heart and stomach of a man. She couldn't leave, not without undermining her position so badly she knew she’d never recover. Besides, if the French took London, she’d be doomed anyway. They’d hardly take the risk of letting her live. Indeed, given what she’d heard from Jack and the treacherous Sir Charles Bellingham, she was privately resolved to kill herself rather than allow the French to take her prisoner. She had a very good idea what they’d do to her.

“
No,” she said, forcing herself to stand upright. The water helped, although she knew she was badly drained. “Where are the others?”

“
Holding the line,” Sir James said. There was a hint of amused reproof in his tone. “You did well, but you are part of a team.”

Gwen felt her cheeks heat. Merlin was a team, but she wasn’t part of it. Sir James took magicians with different talents and worked them into a whole, she had all the talents, yet preferred to work on her own. But she couldn't afford to work on her own in wartime. She needed to learn to fit into a team.

“
I know,” she said, finally. If only there had been more time to practice! But it had been scant days between her return from Russia and the outbreak of war. “And ...”

She broke off as she felt another spike of magic. A trio of Frenchmen were running towards them, surrounded by hideous monsters. Gwen had to admire their skill, but not their common sense. The illusions were striking, too striking, to be real. It would have been more effective, she noted as Sir James wrapped them both in a protective shield, if they’d created a vision of French soldiers charging their position. A soldier on the battlefield might well have thought that illusion was reality.

“
Blazers,” Sir James said, as the illusions snapped out of existence. His shield began to glow as the Frenchmen bombarded it with magic. “And not particularly well-trained ones either.”

Gwen nodded, then reached out with her magic and caught hold of all three Frenchmen, hurling them up and into the air. Unlike the Movers, Blazers couldn't fly under their own power. They’d fall to the ground and die, when gravity reasserted itself. She let go of them, wondering absently just where they’d land. Maybe they’d come down right on top of the Frenchman in command.

“
I need to catch up with the others,” Sir James said. “Do you want to come with me?”

Gwen shook her head. “I need to find out what’s going on,” she said. In all the excitement, she’d lost track of the overall battle. Now there was no immediate threat, she might have to find Major Shaw and get an overall report. “I’ll catch up with you.”

She half-expected Sir James to insist she came with him, but he said nothing and merely strolled off to the southeast. Gwen felt an odd stab of envy, then reached for her magic and tested it, gingerly. She still had enough to be dangerous, she reassured herself, if she needed to fight. Bracing herself, she pulled her magic around her and rose off the ground and into the air. Her ears were still muffled - she made a mental note to check with a Healer, after the fighting was done - but she could hear the sound of artillery fire. It was hard to be sure, but it seemed to be growing closer.

It was hard to see anything clearly. The battlefield was swathed in smoke. Flames were rising from the nearby woodland, suggesting that someone was trying to burn out the defenders. Explosions flickered and flared where shells landed. A burning airship drifted into view, her crew fighting desperately to keep her in the air even though it was futile; she hit the ground and exploded into a massive fireball. Gwen couldn't help feeling a flicker of contempt. Both sides had plenty of reason to know, by now, that airships just couldn't survive anywhere near Blazers ...

And the hussars were mounting a charge against the French lines.

She felt her heart drop into her boots as the charge picked up speed. The French were battered, yes, but they weren't broken. As she watched, they formed a square and greeted the hussars with canisters of grapeshot. Gwen tried to think of something - anything - she could do, but there was nothing. The hussars were brave men. They didn't break, they didn't run, but it hardly mattered. The last of them fell from his horse and died well before reaching the French lines.

I gave them no orders, Gwen thought, as she dropped down towards her command tent. Who sent them out to die?

“
Lady Gwen,” Major Shaw said. He sounded impossibly cheerful. Beside him, a pair of staff officers, wearing fancy uniforms, were smoking. “I ...”

Gwen cut him off. “The hussars are dead,” she snapped. The urge to tear him apart rose up within her. Two hundred men, most of them aristocrats, were dead. “What have you done?”

“
I saw an opportunity and I took it,” Major Shaw said. He didn't sound apologetic. “I did what I thought needed to be done.”

“
Tell me,” Gwen ordered, lacing her voice with Charm. “What were you thinking?”

“
I did what you would have done, if you were not hampered by your sex,” Major Shaw said, sounding rather perplexed. He didn't seem bright enough, Gwen noted, to realise he was being Charmed. His cronies made no attempt to hide their amusement. “One must take decisive action on the battlefield ...”

Gwen felt her temper snap. The hussars had been thrown into battle and slaughtered, for nothing. There was nothing wrong with taking decisive action, but the moment had been wrong. And he had felt he could disobey her because she was a woman ...?

She reached out with her magic, with the talent she’d discovered in Russia, and caught hold of his mind. “Stay here,” she snarled. He let out an odd little gasp, as if she’d pricked him with a pin. “Sit down. Issue no further orders. Keep your mouth shut!”

Major Shaw sat down, his entire body shaking with ... something. Gwen barely noticed, just as she barely noticed the two cronies who were backing away from her. She had to fight to keep from ripping his mind to shreds. It would be so easy ...

Instead, she turned her back and walked back to the war.

Chapter Two

London felt ... eerie.

Raechel Slater-Standish walked slowly down Pall Mall, feeling alone in the middle of a teeming city. The streets, normally full to bursting with cabs, carts and thousands upon thousands of hawkers, traders and pedestrians, were deserted. She couldn't help feeling as if the entire population had just vanished, stolen away in the middle of the night, even though she knew it was absurd. The Lord Mayor had warned the population to stay indoors and keep out of the way, particularly if the French laid siege to the city. She sensed, more than saw, hidden eyes peeking at her as she picked up speed. They had to be wondering who she was and why she was out on the streets. No young woman should be out and about with the French breathing down their necks.

I have a pass, she thought, feeling the sheaf of papers in her bag. And somewhere to go.

She shivered, despite herself. Her aunt had never really grasped just how many times Raechel had slipped out of the house, despite ordering the maids to keep a sharp eye on the young mistress. And yet, Raechel knew she’d never really gone into Greater London, beyond the bright lights and safety of the richest part of the city. There were footpads out there, men who would steal from a young woman - or do worse, if they thought the young woman had no one who would avenge her. But she’d seen worse in Russia, she reminded herself. The undead had almost killed her ...

A horse cantered up beside her, the mounted policeman looking down at her with cold suspicious eyes. Raechel felt a flicker of surprise, then told herself not to be stupid. She looked respectable - the dress she wore marked her out as middle-class, rather than the finery she normally wore - but she shouldn't be on the streets at all. The policeman had no reason to believe she wasn't anything more than a merchant’s daughter.

“Your papers, Miss,” he said.

Raechel produced one of the pieces of paper she’d been given, after her brief interview with a government official, and held it out to the policeman. His eyes went very wide - the permit authorised her to go anywhere, save for the red zones surrounding the city - and he passed it back hastily, as if he feared it would burn him. Raechel gave him a cheeky smile, then folded the paper up and put it back in her bag. He doffed his hat to her and cantered off.

It could have been worse, she thought, as she watched the policeman ride off into the distance. He could have tried to insist on escorting me to my destination.

She shook her head as she turned the corner and headed down, past a long line of houses she knew to be both expensive and exclusive, even though they were relatively small. Her uncle had often bemoaned the simple fact that even he couldn't afford more than one, despite his great wealth and political standing. Raechel had pointed out, rather dryly, that there weren’t enough of them to go around, driving the price upwards sharply. Her uncle hadn't been impressed. He’d merely ordered her to go back to learning ladylike arts while waiting for a suitable husband.

Her lips quirked at the thought. Her uncle’s idea of what made a suitable husband and hers were unlikely to agree, even slightly. And if he’d known just how far she’d gone, in some of the hidden places for younger members of the aristocracy, he’d have disowned her on the spot ... unless, of course, keeping the money from her father’s legacy was more important to him. It probably was. Ambassador Standish needed money and connections to promote himself in the corridors of power.

She stopped outside a simple black door and hesitated, feeling - again - unseen eyes peering at her. Lady Gwen had told her that she’d put Raechel’s name forward for training, but warned her that it was going to be hard, very hard. Being a secret government agent was always hard, particularly if one happened to have spent the first eighteen years of her life as a spoilt brat. Raechel hadn't liked the implication, but she had to admit that Lady Gwen had a point. Sneaking out for furtive kisses - and more - wasn't anything like as dangerous as fighting the undead in Russia.

And you wanted to make something of yourself, she told herself. It would be easy to wait until her father’s legacy passed to her, then spend the rest of her life partying, but she wanted something more. This is the way forward.

Taking a breath, she stepped forward and tapped on the door.

There was a long pause, then the door swung open of its own accord. The corridor beyond, illuminated by gaslights hanging from the walls, was empty. A chill ran down her spine as she recalled all the stories of haunted houses, where vengeful ghosts lay in wait for their prey ... and then she shook her head, firmly. A magician could easily have opened the door for her, even from a distance. Moments later, she felt a gentle force tugging at her, inviting her inside. She could have turned and run, but instead she walked forward, into the house. The door closed behind her as soon as she was inside. Ahead of her, another door gaped open invitingly. Raechel scowled - did they really need all the theatrics - and then walked onwards, through the door. The room was empty, save for a young woman standing against the far wall. Raechel felt an odd tingle at the back of her mind as the young woman looked up at her.

They studied each other in silence for a long moment. The woman was older than Raechel, she thought, probably at least twenty-five. Her face was very pale, a natural paleness Raechel knew she’d never be able to emulate, no matter how much cream and dust she piled on her face. It was framed by short dark hair that gave her an impish look, although the way she held herself suggested she was used to much longer hair. And while she wore a simple white dress, Raechel had no doubt the woman was from the aristocracy. No commoner could hope to maintain that sort of poise.

“
You are wrong, I’m afraid,” the woman said. She spoke in the genteel tones of the aristocracy, just like Lady Standish, but there was a hint of amusement in her voice that Raechel’s aunt would never have allowed herself. “I was not born to the aristocracy.”

Raechel stared at her in shock. How the hell had she ...?

Understanding clicked. “Get out of my mind!”

The woman - the Talker - smiled. “Learn how to stop me,” she challenged. “Anyone can, with enough effort.”

Raechel glared at her, then tried to recall Gwen’s lessons. She wasn't given to contemplation, not like her aunt. It was hard to organise her thoughts, then shield them against questing probes from a Talker. Every time she thought she had it, she felt that accused tingle at the back of her mind ...