The Witch Watch (15 page)

Too late he realized his error. Gilbert turned sideways, wrenching the sword out of his hand and walking away with it still buried in his chest.

Leopold stood defiantly, his hands clenched into fists. “You are wrong about the viscount. He was a good man and I will not have you speak about him so ignorantly. Perhaps you are wrong about my sister as well.”

Gilbert thought to offer a cutting remark, but Alice jumped in first, “Perhaps we are wrong. I would be happy to learn the truth if you would teach it to us.”

“I would gladly clear his name, but it is not permitted to speak of these things far from my family,” Leopold said.

Gilbert scoffed, “Your defense of the viscount is, ‘he’s innocent, but it’s a secret’? Only an imbecile would offer such testimony. And it would take a bigger imbecile to accept it.”

The prince flared with rage. For a moment Gilbert thought their battle would become a brawl, but Alice rushed in. “Please Highness. I know this is asking a great deal, but the more we know, the better Sophie’s chances are. If the viscount is not our foe, then perhaps your knowledge can lead us to him.”

The prince cooled and began pacing as he spoke, “It is not widely known, but I was born a hemophiliac. I probably wouldn’t have lived to adulthood. But Oswald, then only an acquaintance of the royal family, quietly offered us aid in the form of magic. I was cured within a year. He asked no favors. Refused all attempts at payment. All he wanted was to spare me from a shortened life of enfeeblement.”

“Your father’s campaign to legitimize benign magic suddenly becomes clear,” Alice observed.

“There’s more,” Leopold said. “When I was a boy, Father became deathly ill. Oswald came to our rescue once again, and brought Father back to health with magic. Mother is certain we would have lost him if not for the viscount.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Alice said softly. “We will keep your secret. It will certainly change our thinking in this investigation.”

Leopold nodded in reply.

Gilbert drew the sword from his chest. The sound was almost worse than the sensation. He offered it back to Leopold.

Leopold snatched the sword away. For a moment Gilbert thought he was going to begin fighting again, but he sheathed the blade. Then the prince spun around and marched off into the rain without a word.

“I wonder what he’ll do now?” Alice muttered.

“Can we go back inside now?” Archer asked. “I'd like to go back in while parts of me are still dry.” He had followed Alice out into the rain, and now seemed to be at a loss for what he should be doing.

“In a moment. I came out here for a reason.” She slipped into the bushes near the door and began searching. Gilbert saw she was carrying a canning jar. “Oh, there’s one!” she said after a few moments.

“What are you looking for?” Gilbert asked.

She held up the jar triumphantly, “A frog!”

A while later they had reconvened in the library. Alice had lit the fireplace so that they could warm themselves after being in the rain. She instructed Gilbert to stay by the fire until he was completely dry, and warned him to watch out for mold. Archer ignored his wet clothes, preferring instead to dry his rifle and smoke his pipe.

Once she’d had some tea, Alice sketched a sorcery circle onto the table, and beside this she placed her imprisoned frog.

“What’s the frog for?” Archer asked.

“For magic,” she said cryptically. Turning to Gilbert she explained. “Yesterday you asked about my being a wizard. I know it seems strange, that wizard hunters should employ a wizard of their own.”

“Does the church know?” Gilbert asked.

“Do not skip ahead,” she scolded. “My father was the leader of Ethereal Affairs at its inception. At the time, he filled the duties of Mr. Moxley, the captain, and myself. He was the director, he led the men in battle, and he was the chief scholar. He was, I must insist, an altogether brilliant man.”

“He would only need to be half as clever as you to accomplish that.”

“When you died, the world was deprived of a skillful flatterer. A pity your sword was not as deft as your tongue.”

“You would have preferred that I run the prince through?”

“No,” she admitted thoughtfully, “I suppose in this case your ineptitude worked in our favor. But you have sidetracked me again! Where was I? My father. Yes, when we discovered that I had the ‘curse’ of wizardry, he moved to make it so that I would be placed in the custody of the ministry. He argued that it would be advantageous to study a wizard that wasn’t harmful, and also that it would be good to have me here for observation to make sure I did not become so. In truth, I’m sure he was only trying to save my life. I was never the subject of any strenuous study, at any rate. When he died, I was the only other person who understood anything of the sorcery books and the only one who could read Black Latin. If they got rid of me, well... they would have needed to start over altogether. Since I was not apparently harmful, I remained in the care of the ministry. At first I stayed here and studied, but last year they began taking me along for ‘field work’. Now, to answer your question: No, the church does
not
know about my ability. Very few people outside of the ministry know of it. And if it were found out, it would be no less scandalous than discovering we were sheltering an abomination. This house is now
packed
with hazardous secrets.”

“And a frog,” Gilbert said, nodding towards their new companion.

“Yes, the frog. I think I’ve unraveled a bit more of Lord Mordaunt’s book. A lot of it seems to be related to feeding wizards.”

Gilbert looked at her slender frame. If not for her clothes, an observer might assume she was destitute. “So it’s a cookbook, then?”

“I’m not talking about food, of course. I’m talking about magic. Wizards are limited in how much magic they can perform. As they use their power, their bodies grow feeble and they become faint. There is a reason wizards are famous for being thin, and it is not because they become so involved with their work that they forget to eat, as some assume. Performing magic drains the body. Observe.”

Alice held out her hand and a flash of fire erupted from it. She paused, took a deep breath, and did it again. This time she was blinking and seemed to be breathing heavily. “Quite exhausting,” she said, sitting down. She waited a few moments and stood again. “One more,” she said. Again the room was lit with a brilliant red light.

She sat down suddenly. Sweat was now rolling down her face, and she was panting. “That’s the last one I dare attempt on my own. I would surely faint if I tried another. But give me a moment.”

Once she caught her breath she stood again. She took the frog and placed it at the center of the circle she’d drawn earlier. “I’ve placed our new friend here in a sorcery circle like the one in Lord Mordaunt’s book, only I’ve altered the inscription to replace his name with my own. A ‘feeding circle’, this is called. Now we will see.” She looked towards Archer. “If I should pass out, don’t panic. Just bring me some water and wait. I’ll wake up again on my own.”

Archer nodded and made every effort to conceal his terror at the proceedings.

Again fire appeared, only this time the plume was far larger and brighter. Gilbert could feel the heat of it from across the room. She giggled. “Oh my! This is wonderful!”

“You’re not feeling faint?” Gilbert asked.

“No! It’s effortless! It’s as easy as drawing breath!” She held her hand out and another blossom of flame roared from her palm. The air in the room churned with the heat. A few nearby pages caught fire. Archer ran forward and beat out the flames. She gestured with her hands, and water droplets filled the air, dousing the fire.

“Oh my,” she said. “I will have to be more cautious, unless I want to incinerate the library. It’s so much stronger now.” She followed this with a few small, playful puffs of fire. “Oh! I am feeling tired again.” She stumbled back, blinking and breathing heavy.

Alice lifted the jar from the sorcery circle, “Oh, I’m so sorry, frog.” She turned the jar over and the frog fell onto the table, lifeless. It was dry and withered, like a November leaf. She looked at the other two, apparently awaiting some response.

“I don’t understand,” Archer said at last.

She sighed. “Lord Mordaunt seems to have found, or discovered, this feeding circle technique. He can place someone in such a circle and then cast magic without regard to the limits of his own strength. At least, until the victim is used up.”

The sun gave up, having never properly risen in the first place, allowing the city to change from grey to black. Eventually the men returned, cold to their bones and with aching backs. They had successfully buried Gilbert’s coffin, and were happy to report they had a respectable audience while doing so. Whatever rumors were being said about the events in Grayhouse, this would, it was hoped, throw them into doubt.

Alice reported on what had happened with the prince, and the fruits of her research.

“I don’t like this news with the prince,” the captain said gravely. “I don’t think we can continue to wait for you to discover the secret to rescuing Sophie. Sooner or later, Lieutenant Stanway is going to rouse someone dangerous. We can’t just sit here while our enemies multiply.”

Alice looked sideways towards Gilbert, and then back to the captain. “Are you suggesting that we give up?”

“No. I am saying that we need proof. It will be much easier for our cause if we can show the princess. Right now we have nothing, and if anyone storms the house we have only our word to explain what we’re trying to do. If Sophie were in our custody, our case would be much stronger.”

“You’re thinking we should assail Ravenstead and look for her?”

“If we don’t find her, we should at least find some more books or clues regarding her whereabouts. At the very least, we should find some proofs regarding the Four Horseman. I do feel bad about the mess we created for Mr. Moxley, and I’d like to make things right.” He turned to the men, “Get some food and some sleep,” he ordered. “Tomorrow we head for Ravenstead.”

Ravenstead was a miserable disappointment.

Gilbert had expected to join a proud company of men dedicated to guarding the life and property of an English nobleman. The information and credentials demanded of him suggested that the viscount was highly selective in choosing his personal guards. Gilbert anticipated clean quarters, quality uniforms, rigorous discipline, orderly behavior, and the chance to forgo all of it when on leave. In short, it would be everything he loved about the military without any messy politics.

The men lived in a disused stable. None of them had bothered to properly convert the building for its new purpose, much less paint or repair. The bedding was in tatters. There was a single bathtub available on one side of the room, which was filled with dust. The food was dreadful, even by military standards. About the only acceptable aspect of their provisions were the uniforms they were given. These were plain, but serviceable. They were marked with the crest of their master, but otherwise unadorned and lacking in any form of insignia or rank.

The men themselves were uncouth, unruly, and unkempt. Many were in poor fitness, being either underfed or (more commonly) overweight. One of the men had a prominent “D” tattooed under his left arm, marking him a deserter. Others had brandings or marks that singled them out as criminals of one sort or another.

Gilbert was greeted with lewd comments and wolf whistles when he arrived. The men made sport of his (British Army) uniform and his neat appearance. “The prettiest lady we’ve seen in a month!” shouted one of them. Gilbert was obliged to give the man a beating for this, which ended their taunts without earning him any friends.

The men were led by Graves, who was inexplicably referred to as “Headmaster”. The man clearly had no knowledge of military organization, leadership, or discipline. He was both cruel and disinterested. He rarely corrected the men for their wayward behavior, and when he did his punishments frequently exceeded the crime and usually fell on the least deserving. He never bothered to learn the names of his men, but instead referred to them using names of his own devising. One was called “BC”, after the tattoo on his hand. (Which stood for “bad character”, a tattoo given to the worst sort of malefactors in the military.) Another he called “bald top” and another was named “toothless”. Another was “one-eye”. More than one man answered to “Plump”. Gilbert was named “Maypole”.