The Royal Sorceress (25 page)

“I see,” Gwen said. She trusted Master Thomas – and yet it was obvious that he wasn’t telling her everything. “Do you think that we will ever find him?”

“He’s probably plotting his next move,” Master Thomas said. “Someone like him will not be able to remain underground forever.”

Chapter Twenty-One

D
arkness fell over London like an enveloping shroud.

Jack perched on a manor’s rooftop, cloaked by the shadows, watching Cavendish Hall. It was strange, staring at his old home – the first place in the world where he had truly felt happy. But the happiness had been a lie, the result of his own arrogance and ignorance, the ignorance when he hadn’t known the truth about his origins. And when he found out, he’d known that he could no longer stay at Cavendish Hall.

He moved his gaze from window to window, wondering which room held Master Thomas’s apprentice. Where had she come from, he asked himself, and what did she make of it all? Master Thomas wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes he’d made with Jack, yet he had had no choice but to take on an unconventional apprentice. A girl would discover some unsavoury truths about magicians on her own, but would she break free of her mental shackles? Or perhaps Master Thomas would have Charmed her into obedience. Charm was deadly, even though it wasn’t anything like as spectacular as Moving or Blazing. A person who had been charmed carefully enough would never realise what had happened to them. Their thoughts would simply flow into the channels created by the Charmer.

A movement caught his eye and he smiled as a dark-clad figure exited the side of the building. He didn’t go down to the main gate, but walked through the gardens to the fence and scrambled over the top, showing remarkable skill. Jack turned and slipped from chimney to chimney, shadowing the dark figure as he headed away from Cavendish Hall. Few people, in his experience, bothered to look up, even when they were trying to remain unseen and avoid hidden watchers. This man was no different. He moved with the precision of an expert, but without the habits that a reconnaissance patrol would have learned in the field. The Duke of India would have been upset if any of his men had shown so little tradecraft.

Jack caught sight of his face, briefly, and his smile deepened. Lord Blackburn himself, heir to one of the most powerful families in Britain – and a Charmer, perhaps the most powerful Charmer in the world. There were whispered stories about Lord Blackburn, stories that suggested that all of his friends were under his spell and all of his servants had had their minds twisted until they could do naught but obey. Jack knew that such stories were, if anything, understatements. Lord Blackburn had been a manipulative little shit even before he’d developed his Charm. The Darwinists had projected themselves onto the universe and had come to believe that they had a right to rule. It said more about their insecurities than it did about God’s grand design.

Lord Blackburn moved with easy confidence through the darkened streets. There was little need to fear footpads, robbers and drunkards in the richer parts of town. The Bow Street Runners patrolled heavily, just to ensure that their lords and masters remained undisturbed in their beds. In other times, Jack would have taken the opportunity to rid the world of a few collaborators – men who helped their oppressors control the poor – but he had other business right now. Unless he missed his guess, Lord Blackburn was heading to the farm. And Jack, whatever else he’d been able to pull from the rumours that surrounded Cavendish Hall, had not been able to locate the farm. There were times when he suspected that aristocratic embarrassment, far more than anything else, helped conceal some of the nation’s darker secrets. The truths were buried under a mountain of nonsense.

He nearly lost Lord Blackburn twice before his quarry finally reached an old house on the edge of the Thames. It was closer to one of Jack’s warehouses than he cared to think about, but it hardly mattered – at least as long as the Royal College didn’t draw attention to the area by mounting patrols around their building. The handful of night watchmen on duty looked properly slovenly; only their posture, and the weapons ill-concealed around their persons, suggested that they were anything more than urban poor working for pennies. Few people trusted night watchmen in London. The guilds controlled the manpower and most of them were corrupt. Jack knew that warehouses and stores had often been burgled by their own guards.

Lord Blackburn stopped outside the doors and spoke briefly to one of the watchmen. Jack wished he had time to concentrate and use his Sight to spy on them, but it was alarmingly possible that Lord Blackburn would sense his intrusion. Charm shouldn’t allow it, yet it had happened. Master Thomas had speculated that all powerful magicians were sensitive to magic, even if they lacked all of the talents. It was as good a theory as any other. He would have to rely on his own senses.

Jack drifted through the air and came to rest on top of the suspicious building. Lord Blackburn had vanished inside, leaving Jack searching the building for a way to enter without being seen. It quickly proved to be impossible. The one hatchway leading down into the building was guarded; he could hear muffled voices from below, suggesting that at least two guards were on duty. He could have broken through and killed them before they had a chance to raise the alarm, but it would not have passed unnoticed. Master Thomas would have known that someone had broken into the building – and it wouldn’t be hard to guess who.

Instead, he took a gamble and floated silently down to one of the windows. It had been painted black, preventing anyone from peering inside, but Jack had very sharp ears. The sound of male grunting could be heard, faintly, accompanied by feminine gasps. Jack smiled, sourly, as he floated back up to the rooftop. He’d located the farm, or at least one of them. All he had to do was decide what to do with the information. Breaking in and wrecking the place, as tempting as it seemed, would be hazardous. There were too many magicians in the building.

Shaking his head, he drifted off into the air and headed down the Thames. There were still boats on the river, including a handful that were clearly smuggling while the excise men were tucked up in bed. London had thousands of docks, jetties and warehouses on both sides of the Thames. It wouldn’t be difficult for smugglers to smuggle in anything they wanted – and once they’d converted their goods to money, no one would be able to prove what had happened. London’s importance didn’t just come from its position. The bank vaults in London were regarded as the safest in the entire world. Even New York didn’t come close. Jack made a mental note to plan a bank robbery and drifted down to one of the smaller barges. The crew didn’t notice him as he touched down on the deck, not until he allowed his cloak to rustle through the air. They looked up in alarm, and then relaxed. Jack had promised them he’d visit, after all.

The barge was larger than he’d expected, but the crew managed to muscle it into the dockyard without problems. London’s docks never slept; bright lights, powered by magic, illuminated the entire scene. It would have seemed impossible to a man living in the era that had birthed Professor Cavendish and Master Thomas, but it was real. Jack shrugged off his cloak, revealing the tunic of a stevedore underneath, and started to help the crew to unload the boxes mounted on the barge. The paperwork said that they were carrying foodstuffs from France; the aristocracy, no matter how much they might dislike the French, had a yearning for French food. If someone happened to examine the barge, there would be considerable embarrassment – and alarm. The boxes held something a great deal more harmful than French pastries and cheeses.

He carried one of the boxes into the warehouse and placed it down on the stone floor. A handful of his men gathered around the box, opening it up with giant crowbars, revealing the weapons hidden within. The French had done them proud; whatever else could be said about the French, their gunsmiths were the best in Europe. There were hundreds of rifles and pistols, a smaller number of machine guns – invented by the French and used on the Prussians, where they had changed the face of warfare – and a handful of cannons in the barge. They’d be scattered throughout London over the night, hidden away from watchful eyes. Even if one cache happened to be discovered, the remainder would be safe.

A smaller box was opened with care. It contained explosives, enough to blow up several large buildings. Jack knew that this one would have to be moved quickly, if only to ensure that no one realised what it contained. Rifles and pistols were one thing, but people tended to get nervous around explosives. It hadn’t been
that
long since Guy Fawkes had tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament. Master Thomas and the Dragoons wouldn’t have to get warrants to search the city if they suspected that the underground was concealing explosives somewhere within London. There would be absolute panic among the high and mighty.

Two hours passed slowly as the barge was unloaded and the various crates earmarked for different destinations. The business was legitimate; anyone who happened to cast an eye over its paperwork would see a receiving firm selling its services to a handful of smaller importing business that didn’t want to purchase their own warehouses in the docklands. Jack changed his clothes, posing as a security guard, and mounted one of the wagons as the horses were urged out onto the streets. That too wasn’t unusual in the docklands; indeed, many preferred to move their goods at night in hopes of avoiding the crowds. It was a fool’s hope outside the richer parts of town.

Jack watched dispassionately as the driver cracked his whip, moving the horses onwards. He’d never liked horses, even when he’d thought that the world made sense. They were nasty brutes; he’d never met one that hadn’t been skittish whenever he’d tried to climb into the saddle. Some dogs sensed magic on magicians – no one knew how – and some magicians had wondered if horses had their own version of the same sense. But Master Thomas had never had difficulty riding a horse. Absently, he wondered if Lady Gwen loved horses. It would fit in with what little he knew of her upbringing.

A group of footpads strolled out onto the streets, took a look at Jack and the other guards, and thought better of trying to hijack the wagon. Jack was almost disappointed. He preferred fighting with his fists – and clubs – to using magic, even though a skirmish on the streets risked attracting attention from the Bow Street Runners. The police might just think to enquire about what was in the wagon and then Jack would have to kill them, or risk losing his supply of weapons. And killing Runners would definitely attract attention.

He was still scowling as the wagon pulled up outside a furniture store. London still produced a fair number of skilled craftsmen, who produced handmade furniture for the nobility. It wouldn’t be long before technology drove them out of work, Jack was sure, just as it had done for many other once-traditional trades. They knew it, too. The craftsmen hated their masters with a passion unmatched by many others who
had
lost their jobs. Fear was a remarkable stimulant. The small crowd of apprentices appeared from the darkened building and started to unload the boxes. They’d keep what they saw to themselves. Their masters would see to that.

Jack nodded to the guards and slipped away, into the darkness. There was another small warehouse not too far away, officially owned by a Newcastle-based shipping company. It was guarded too, but the guards allowed Jack to enter the building once they recognised him. Inside, it was a small military base; the rebel soldiers had spread out their blankets on the stone floor, spending their days sleeping, eating and exercising. Boredom would be driving them out of their minds, but they’d be in London when the time came to strike. And, as far as they knew, they were the only group in the city. Jack knew that there were ten other buildings being prepared as advance bases for the rebellion.

He inspected the troops quickly and efficiently, before consulting briefly with their commander and slipping out of the rear entrance. The plan had worked well so far – almost perfectly – but the chances of exposure grew higher as he brought more and more of his people to London. A single mistake could alert the government and Lord Mycroft, at least, would understand the seriousness of the situation. Jack had thought about trying to assassinate him, but he was well protected and his brother would stop at nothing to hunt down his murderer. The last thing the rebels needed was London’s most famous consulting detective on their trail.

Outside, a wavering band of light was beginning to appear in the distance. Dawn was rising over the city. Jack pulled his cloak around him and levitated up to the rooftops, starting the long walk back to the Rookery. Parts of the rooftops had been altered since the days when he used to sneak out of Cavendish Hall, he noted, almost regretfully. But he’d been a young man then, unaware of the price he would pay for his powers – and unaware of the price that others would pay. He almost missed a step and narrowly avoided plunging down off the roof with a touch of magic. Jack was in good shape, but he knew that he was no longer a young man. Life on the run had hardened him, yet it had exacted a toll.

He dropped down to the streets as he reached the edge of the more prosperous part of London. It was a short walk to the Rookery, one he had already determined would be walked on the ground. There might just be a chance for some excitement. He was almost disappointed until he walked past an alleyway and a hulking bravo stepped out, intent on causing trouble. Jack promptly beat the hell out of him with such vicious thoroughness that the bravo’s friends, hardly unused to violence, backed off and headed off at speed. The man Jack had beaten to within an inch of his life lay groaning in the gutter. Jack fought back the temptation to urinate on his body – though it would have reminded the bravo of his defeat – and headed onwards. No one else tried to block his path.

The memory made him smile as he walked into the Rookery. He felt little sympathy for the footpad. Instead of helping his fellow man, he had robbed them, taking money from those who had little and offering nothing in return, not even security. The beating would hopefully convince the bastard that there were changes coming, changes Jack intended would completely reshape the city. Or maybe the coward would just go to a brothel and take his temper out on a whore. The thought disgusted Jack. How could a man call himself a man when he beat a helpless and defenceless woman?