He was old and frail, bent with years. The whole room quietened to a hush.
“Friends,” he began, “little of note has happened since last week, so I shall shortly open our meeting to the floor. As always, I would like to thank our patron, Mr. Fox, for his hospitality. Perhaps we could hear from Mary first, for news of the American situation?”
He sat. At an adjacent table a woman stood, thin-faced and weary. Kitty judged her to be not yet forty, though her hair was flecked with gray. “A merchant ship came in late last night,” she began. “Its last berth was Boston, in the war zone. The crew breakfasted at our cafe this morning. They told us that the most recent British offensive has failed—Boston is still in American hands. Our army withdrew to the fields, searching for supplies, and has since been attacked. Losses are high.”
A low muttering filled the room. The old gentleman half stood. “Thank you, Mary. Who cares to speak next?”
“If I may?” The young bearded man spoke up; he was stocky, self-confident; he carried an assertive air. “I represent a new organization, the Commoners’ Alliance. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”
There was a general shuffling, a sense of unease. From behind the bar Kitty frowned. Something about the speaker’s voice … it bothered her.
“We’re trying to gather support,” the man went on, “for a new round of strikes and public demonstrations. We’ve got to show the magicians what’s what. The only way to make them sit up is concerted action by us all. I’m talking mass protests here.”
“May I speak?” The elderly lady, immaculately presented in a dark blue dress and crimson shawl, sought to rise; a chorus of amiable protest ensued, and she remained seated. “I am fearful of what is happening in London,” she said. “These strikes, this unrest … Surely it is not the answer. What will they achieve? Only sting our leaders to harsh reprisals. The Tower will echo with the laments of honest men.”
The young man thumped the table with a thick pink fist. “What is the alternative, madam? Sit quiet? The magicians won’t thank us if we do! They’ll grind us further into the dirt. We must act now! Remember—they can’t imprison everyone!”
There was a round of ragged clapping. The old lady stubbornly shook her head. “You’re quite wrong,” she said. “Your argument only works if the magicians can be destroyed. They cannot!”
Another man spoke out. “Steady on, Grandma. That’s defeatist talk.”
She jutted her chin. “Well? Can they? How?”
“They’re obviously losing control, or they’d have beaten the rebels easily.”
“We can get help from the Europeans too,” the young blond man added. “Don’t forget that. The Czechs will fund us. And the French.”
George Fox nodded. “French spies have given me a couple of magical items,” he said. “Just in case of trouble. Never had to use them, mind.”
“Excuse me,” the old lady said, “but you’ve not explained how a few strikes will actually bring the magicians down.” She raised her bony chin and looked defiantly around at the company. “Well?” Several of the men made noises of disapproval, but were too busy sipping drinks to voice an exact reply.
From behind the bar Kitty spoke. “You are right, madam, that defeating them will be difficult,” she said in a quiet voice, “but it is not impossible. Revolutions have succeeded dozens of times. What happened to Egypt, Rome, or Prague? All were invincible—for a time. All fell when the people stirred themselves.”
“But my dear,” the old lady said, “in each case there were enemy armies.…”
“In each case,” Kitty went on determinedly, “foreign leaders took advantage of the kingdom’s internal weaknesses. The people were already rebelling. They didn’t have strong magic or vast armies—they were commoners just like us.”
The old lady pursed her lips into a humorless smile. “Perhaps. But how many of us want an invasion by foreigners? Our rulers may not be perfect, but at least they’re British.”
The young bearded man snorted. “Let’s get back to now. Tonight the Battersea steelworkers are going on strike—just down the river from here. Come and join us! So what if the magicians send their demons? They will get no more cannon from us!”
“And where will your steelworkers be?” the old lady said harshly. “Some in the Tower, some at the bottom of the Thames. And others will take their place.”
“The demons won’t get it all their own way,” the young man said. “Some people have resilience. You must have heard of it. They can withstand attacks, see through illusions—”
As he spoke, Kitty’s eyes suddenly cleared. She saw beyond his thick mustache, his scruffy blond beard: she knew him, clear as day. Nick Drew, last surviving companion in the Resistance. Nick Drew, who had fled Westminster Abbey in their darkest hour, leaving his friends behind. He was older, stouter, but full of the same old bluster. You still talk a good fight, she thought viciously. You always were good at talking. I bet you’ll keep well away when the strike gets nasty…. A sudden fear took hold of her; she stepped back out of his line of sight. Useless though Nick was, if he recognized her, her cover would be blown.
The group was busy discussing the phenomenon of resilience. “They can see magic. Clear as day,” a middle-aged woman said. “That’s what I’ve heard.”
The old lady shook her head again. “Rumors, cruel rumors,” she said sadly. “This is all secondhand tittle-tattle. It would not surprise me if it wasn’t started by the magicians themselves, to tempt you into rashness. Tell me,” she went on, "has anyone here ever actually seen any of this resilience in action?”
A silence in The Frog. Kitty shifted impatiently from one foot to another, longing to speak. But Clara Bell was no one special—she’d decided that long ago. Besides, wariness of Nick prevented her. She looked around the taproom. The company, most of which had met there in secret for many years, was generally middle-aged or older. Resilience was not something they knew much of, firsthand. Except Nick Drew, who possessed as least as much resilience as Kitty. But he sat quiet, saying nothing.
The mood in the room had been soured by the argument. After a few minutes’ glum reflection the old gentleman got slowly to his feet again. “Friends,” he began, “let us not be downcast! Perhaps the magicians are too dangerous to fight, but we can at least resist their propaganda. A new issue of Real War Stories is out today. Spurn it! Tell your friends about its lies!”
At this George Fox spoke up. “I think you’re being a bit harsh there.” He raised his voice against the general murmur of disbelief. “Yes. I’ve made it my business to collect as many editions of Real War Stories as I can.”
“Oh, shame on you, Mr. Fox,” said the elderly lady, in a quivery voice.
“No, I’m proud to admit it,” he went on. “And if any of you choose to pay a visit to the restrooms later on, you shall find ample proof of those pamphlets’ worth. They are most absorbent. “There was a general laugh. Keeping her back to the young blond man, Kitty stepped forward with a pitcher to refill a few glasses.
“Well, time is moving on,” the old gentleman said, “and we must part. But first, as is traditional, we will take our usual oath.” He sat down.
George Fox reached under the bar and drew out a large cup, aged and battered, with a pair of crossed dominoes rampant on the lid. It was made of solid silver. He took a dark bottle from a shelf and, removing the lid, poured a generous measure of port into the cup. Kitty took the cup in both hands and carried it to the old gentleman.
“We shall all drink in turn,” he said. “May we live to see the day when a Commoners’ Parliament is established once again. May it uphold the ancient rights of every man and woman—to discuss, debate, and dissent from the policies of our leaders, and hold them accountable for their actions.” With due reverence, he lifted the cup and took a sip, before passing it clockwise to his neighbor.
This ritual was a high point of such meetings at The Frog: after the debates, which never reached any conclusion, it offered the
solace of something fixed and familiar. The silver cup was slowly passed from person to person, from table to table. Everyone awaited its arrival, old hands and newcomers alike, except for the elderly lady, who was readying herself for departure. George moved around to the front of the bar and—together with Sam, the bartender—began clearing glasses from tables near the door. Kitty accompanied the cup, moving it between tables when required. She kept her face turned from Nick Drew as best she could.
“Do we need more port, Clara?” George called. “Mary there had a great big gulp, I saw her.”
Kitty took the cup, inspected it. “No. We’ve plenty left.”
“Good enough. My dear lady, surely you’re not leaving us?”
The old woman smiled. “I must go, dear. With all these disturbances on the street, I’ll not stay out too late.”
“Yes, of course. Clara, bring this lady the cup so she can drink before she goes.”
“Right you are, George.”
“Oh, it’s not necessary, dear. I’ll take a double drink next time.” This roused laughter and a few cheers; one or two men got up to allow the old woman to squeeze by.
Kitty followed her. “Here you are, madam, there’s plenty left.”
“No, no, I really must be going, thank you. It’s so late.”
“Madam, you’ve dropped your shawl.”
“No, no. I can’t wait. Excuse me, please …”
“Steady on, love! Watch where you’re pushing—”
“Excuse me, excuse me …”
Stony-faced, her eyes dark and blank like the cutout holes on an empty mask, the old woman moved rapidly across the room, turning her head repeatedly to look back at Kitty, who was advancing fast behind her. Kitty held the silver cup outstretched—first reverently, as if offering up a gift; then suddenly jerking it back and forth like a feinting blade. The proximity of the silver seemed to give the lady discomfort—she flinched away. George placed his stack of glasses carefully on a side table and put a hand into a pocket. Sam opened a cupboard on the wall, reached in. The rest of the company remained seated, expressions caught between amusement and uncertainty.
“The door, Sam,” George Fox said.
The old woman darted forward. Sam turned to face her, blocking the door; he held a short, dark rod in his hand. “Hold on, lady,” he said reasonably. “Rules are rules. You’ve got to take a drink from the cup before you go. It’s a sort of test.” He made an embarrassed gesture and looked ruefully at her. “I’m sorry.”
The old lady stopped, shrugged. “Don’t be.” She raised a hand. A blue light stabbed from her palm, engulfing Sam in a crackling network of bright blue force. He leaped, shuddered, danced oddly like a puppet, then fell smoking to the floor. Someone in the taproom screamed.
A whistle sounded, shrill and impertinent. The old woman turned, her cupped hand raised and steaming. “Now then, my dear—”
Kitty threw the silver cup into the old woman’s face.
A flash of bright green light, a hiss of scalding. The old lady snarled like a dog, clutched at her face with clawing fingers. Kitty turned her head: “George—!”
From his pocket the landlord drew a small box, delicate and oblong. He threw it to Kitty, hard and fast, over the shouting, rising heads of the nearest men and women. She caught it in one hand, spun in a single movement to toss it at the writhing figure—
The old lady removed her fingers from her face, which had largely disappeared. Between the neat white hair and the necklace of pearls at her throat a misshapen mass was glistening. It had no regular shape, no features. Kitty was taken aback; she hesitated. The faceless woman lifted her hand and another bright stream of sapphired light shot out, striking Kitty head-on, engulfing her in a vortex of shimmering energy. She groaned. Her teeth rattled in her skull; every bone seemed to be shaking free of its neighbors; dazzling lights blinded her. She sensed her clothes singeing on her body.
The attack ceased; the lines of blue energy vanished; from where she had been suspended, about a meter up, Kitty fell limply to the ground.
The old lady flexed her fingers, grunted in satisfaction, and looked around the taproom. In all directions people were fleeing, knocking over tables, sending chairs flying, colliding with each other, squealing in mortal fear; the young blond-haired man had hidden behind a barrel. Across the room she spied George Fox edging toward a chest beside the bar. Another blast—but he had launched himself desperately to the side: a section of the counter disintegrated in a heap of glass and matchwood; George Fox rolled away behind a table out of view.
Ignoring the laments and scurryings around her, the old lady turned to leave once more. She adjusted her twinset, brushed a stray coil of gray hair from her ruined face, stepped across Sam’s body, and reached for the door.
Another whistle, shrill and impertinent, sounded above the clamor. The old lady froze with her fingers on the handle. She cocked her head and turned.
Then Kitty, whose eyes were slightly crossed, whose clothes were streaked and torn, whose hair frizzed all about her like a mane of cotton wool, but who had struggled to her feet again regardless, tossed over the small box. As it landed at the old lady’s feet, Kitty spoke a single word.
A burst of light, searing in its intensity; a column of flame, two meters in diameter, rose from floor to ceiling. It was utterly smooth-sided, more like a pillar than a moving thing. It surrounded the old lady on all sides—she could be seen transfixed within it, like an insect within amber: gray hair, pearl necklace, blue dress, all. The pillar became solid, suddenly opaque, and the old woman was hidden within it.
The light faded, the pillar became faint and nebulous. It vanished, leaving a perfectly circular burn mark on the floor. The old lady with the molten face was gone.
At first the taproom of The Frog was very still: a wasteland of upturned tables, smashed chairs, wood fragments, prone bodies, and scattered dominoes. Only Kitty stood, arms poised, breathing hard, staring at the space before the door.
Then, one by one, the members began to express their shock and fear; they moved upon the floor, they stirred, they slowly rose, they began to moan and babble. Kitty remained silent; she looked toward the ruined bar. From a distant point along it George’s face emerged. He stared at Kitty wordlessly.
She raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
“Let them get their breath back. Then they can go. The sphere mustn’t notice anything.”
With slow, stiff moments, Kitty clambered over the nearest pile of shattered wood and stepped around the body of the bartender. Pushing aside a teary gentleman who was blundering toward the exit, she locked the door. She stood there for five minutes while the frightened customers recovered, then she let them out, one by one.
Last to leave was Nicholas Drew, who had emerged from behind his barrel. Their eyes met; he paused at the door.
“Hello, Kitty,” he said. “Still as energetic as ever, I see.”
Kitty’s expression did not change. “Nick.”
The young man smoothed back his hair and began buttoning his coat. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll forget I’ve seen you. New life, and all that.” He looked around the debris of the room. “Unless you want to join up with the Commoners’ Alliance, of course. We could do with someone like you.”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m happy as I am.”
He nodded. “Right. Well, then. Good-bye. And … good luck.”
“Good-bye, Nick.” She closed the door behind him.
George Fox was hunched over Sam’s body; white, terrified faces peeped in from the kitchen. Kitty leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. Just one demon—one spy—had done this. In London there were hundreds of them. At the same time, next week the people would return to The Frog to talk, debate, and do nothing. Meanwhile, every day, across London, voices of protest were briefly heard—and swiftly, ruthlessly, cut off. Demonstrations were useless. Talk was useless. There had to be another way
Perhaps there was. It was time
to carry out her plan.
12
Night had fallen upon the Prime Minister’s mansion at Richmond. Upon the western lawns a number of tall columns had been built; from their tops burned colored imp-fires, illuminating the scene with weird radiance. Servants in the vibrant garb of firebirds and salamanders drifted here and there, offering refreshment. From the black wall of trees beyond the lake, invisible musicians played a sweet pavane; the sounds carried gently above the voices of the guests.
The great ones of the Empire meandered about the garden, talking quietly, listlessly, looking at their watches. They wore formal gowns and dress suits; their features were concealed behind ornate masks depicting animals, birds, and demons. Such parties were among Mr. Devereaux’s many extravagances, and had become quite common during the period of the war.
John Mandrake leaned against a pillar, watching the guests drift by. His mask was made of flakes of moonstone, sewn cleverly together to resemble an albino lizard’s head. Doubtless it was skillful, an object of wonder, but it still didn’t fit. He found it difficult to see and had twice stepped into the flower beds. He sighed. No word yet from Bartimaeus … He would have expected something by now.
A small group passed him, a peacock surrounded by two attentive she-lynxes and a fawning dryad. In the peacock’s paunch and self-important strut he recognized Mr. Collins; the women were probably lower magicians from his department, eager for advancement. Mandrake scowled. Collins and the rest had not been slow to criticize him when he’d brought up the Staff in Council. He’d spent the rest of the meeting enduring a dozen sly insinuations, as well as Devereaux’s frosty glances. No question about it, his proposal had been ill advised, a foolish blunder for a politician.
To hell with politics! Its conventions smothered him—he felt like a fly caught up in a choking web. His whole life was spent appeasing Devereaux, fighting off his rivals. An utter waste of time. Someone was needed to steady the Empire before it was too late. Someone had to defy the others, and use the Staff.