Elementary (8 page)

The swim to Blackfriars was the longest he'd ever made. Despite his shields, the water was bitterly cold, the current powerful, and the waves unpredictable, threatening to overwhelm him at every stroke, his untrained talent no true match for them. The undines did what they could to send him strength, but as he drew closer to London and the waters grew increasingly dark and fetid, they fell back, one by one, until only four of the largest of them were able to stay by him, growing more and more agitated moment by moment. Tiny hands caught at his arms and legs, trying to draw him to the safety of the bank, but he swam on, and they swam with him, keening their distress. His head began to throb, the cold leaching in through a dozen rents in his shields as his focus began to slip, then deserted him entirely.

He went under.

Christopher!

His father's voice, strong, commanding, and impossible to ignore, sounded in his ears.

Christopher! To the undines! Now!

His eyes snapped open to see the delicate creatures writhing in the murky waters beside him. With a surge of will, he threw a shield around them like a net and dragged them to the surface. Then all he could do was swim.

By the time he fetched up against the dock at Blackfriars, he was fading in and out of consciousness, his only thought to maintain the shield around the undines who clung desperately to his face and neck. But there was still Hart's box to retrieve, so scrabbling at the wooden pier made slippery by years of rot and excrement, he blinked rapidly to try to clear his mind before sending out a shaky tendril of power into deeper water. He found it just within reach. Before he could lose it again in the shifting tide, he threw a pulse of power into the tendril to strengthen it.

“On the Madras docks you sent out a shield like a little tube and drew them right up to you through it, laughin' the whole time.”

“Wul, les hope laughin's . . . not . . . impor . . . ant,” he slurred. Trusting to instinct to do the job properly, he formed the tendril into a tube of clean, clear water, then made his request to the undines as best he could through chattering teeth and a heavy, encroaching darkness. He had to repeat himself twice to be understood, and finally it was only the promise that he would leave the river that convinced them, but eventually the two largest turned and plunged down the tube.

“Just a little while longer now, Christopher. Can you hold on a little while longer?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Good boy.”

Time flowed past on a tide of resurging memories:
the vague, fuzzy recollections of his first year in India, his mother lighting candles with a flick of her wrist, his father standing tall and proud in a host of red-jacketed men, danger, fire, then England, a new land, a new family, safety. His father's death looming like a storm on the horizon, heavy with loss and confusion, and he turned away, only to see Uncle Neville standing in his brother's parlor, his face a mask of grief. His lips moved, and Christopher strained to hear his words, yet the now familiar magic rose up to block him—his own magic, he suddenly realized, cast to hide a plan hatched by the children of Robert Clive. A plan to catch the man who'd ordered their father murdered for a magical artifact in a small leaden box three days ago . . .

Three days . . . ago . . .

“Kit!”

Three days . . .

“Kit, boy, answer me!”

Shaking the memory away, he stared up at Henry Keeling, crouched on the dock above him.

“Do you have it?” the older man shouted. “The box?”

He blinked, and saw it clutched in his hands just below the surface of the water. “Y . . . yes.”

“Then here, take my hand and I'll pull you up!”

He looked down to see the four undines who'd made the journey with him all the way from Westminster Bridge, lying half in and half out of his ragged shield, their eyes glassy, their delicate features unresponsive. He shook his head.

“N . . . no,” he rasped. “Undines . . . can't leave them . . . Must . . . take them back.”

“S'all right, lad! It's raining fit to drown a man up here! They'll be fine once we get you all out of there!”

“Oh . . . all right . . . then . . .”

Strong arms pulled him from the water. His last sensations were of the undines' tiny fingers tangled in his hair and the high-pitched shriek of police whistles as the rain washed the Thames from his body.

 • • • 

The London Chronicle
, March 6, 1783

On Wednesday night about nine o'clock, three men were taken into custody by the Bow Street Runners on charges of theft and murder in connection with the attack on the East India Company Ship
Woodford
.

 • • • 

His rooms in Queen Square were bright and airy and smelled of sandalwood and lavender. When he awoke, Christopher lay in bed for some time, enjoying the feel of clean sheets and the sound of birds singing outside his window, before finally opening his eyes. The man sitting by the bed and reading a book looked up with a smile.

“All right, Kit?” he asked, his voice warm with love.

Christopher smiled weakly in return. “As right as I'll ever be, Teddy,” he answered, striving to allow the relief he felt to color his voice. “Did we get him?”

“We got him. Keeling arrested his men on the dock, and they gave Hart up at once. He's in Newgate as we speak. He'll hang for certain.”

A memory from the night before surfaced slowly. “Keeling's a Bow Street Runner.”

Edward nodded. “And one of the men whose been guarding our family unseen for the past nine years.”

“And the undines?”

“Are waiting for you, safe and sound in the courtyard fountain.”

“They couldn't tell me that Father never died that night.”

“I know. He was too strong a Water Master. He swore them to secrecy, and they couldn't disobey him, no matter how much they wanted to.” A tiny salamander scampered across Edward's shoulder, and he smiled at it gently. “We were in danger, all of us. The mages he'd battled with in India had followed him here. He had to draw them away to protect us all.”

“I know. I just wish I'd known before.”

“So do I.”

Pushing himself up, Christopher settled against the headboard. “What about the antiquity, that thing in the leaden box that Father died for, where is it?”

“Uncle Neville took charge of it for the White Lodge.”

“I hope it was worth it.” Christopher couldn't help the note of bitterness that crept into his voice, but Edward just nodded.

Setting his book to one side, he stood. “Hungry?” he asked.

“A little, if I can ever get the taste of the Thames out of my mouth.”

Edward grimaced. “Well, Mrs. Cooper has a roast of beef on, so if anything can drive the taste away, it will be that.”

He held out his hand to help his younger brother rise, and Christopher accepted it without hesitation.

 • • • 

The next morning, Robert Clive's body was finally properly interred in St Margaret's Parish Churchyard at Moreton Say in Shropshire. This time there was no taint of possible suicide, no feelings of anger, or betrayal, no confusion, only simple grief. Henry Keeling stood behind the family, his dark blue uniform dotted with the rain, a comforting presence that Christopher had only just begun to realize, had always been there.

As the rest of the family made their way to various coaches, Uncle Neville drew Christopher aside.

“I'm not going to ask you to join the White Lodge like Edward and Rebecca,” the older man said, “because I know you won't; there's far too much of your father in you. However, London's new police force could certainly use a magistrate with an understanding of the city's more exotic activities. I'm sure I could put a word in the right ear . . .”

Christopher shook his head. “I really don't think I'm magistrate material, Uncle Neville.” He glanced over at Keeling. “But something like it, maybe. I have to talk things over with my godfather first.”

Neville smiled. “Fair enough. Keep in touch, my boy. Life's too short and the world's too wide for family to be strangers, yes?”

“Yes.”

The older man headed for his own coach, leaving Christopher and Keeling standing together in the rain while a dozen undines sported in the growing puddles at their feet.

Elizabeth A. Vaughan

Thomas Davies, late of His Majesty's Royal Army, recently sworn Yeoman Warder of the Tower of London, and reluctant Ravenmaster, stood at attention, eyes forward, sweat gathering under his collar.

Before him stood Lieutenant-General Loftus and Colonel Doyle, positioned at either side of a great wide mahogany desk. Behind the desk sat His Lordship, the Constable of the Tower, Field Marshall Arthur, Duke of Wellington.

Behind the Duke perched three of the Tower's resident ravens, their blue-black feathers pressed against the glass. Their claws skittered against the stone sill as they fought for position.

Tom kept his eyes straight ahead, trying not to watch the birds.

“A disgrace,” Lieutenant-General Loftus sputtered, his thick eyebrows almost meeting in a scowl. “Their constant, frantic cawing, their struggles to fly outside these walls—”

“They can't,” the Duke observed mildly, focused on the papers in front of him. “Their wings are clipped. Have been since . . . since—”

“Charles the Second, sir,” Colonel Doyle supplied.

“Charles the Second,” the Duke agreed as he leaned back in his chair and formed a steeple with his fingers. “Wise precaution, given that the Empire will fall if the ravens leave the Tower.”

“Britain, sir,” Colonel Doyle said.

“Pardon?”

“Britain, sir,” Doyle repeated calmly. “The folklore implies that the Crown and Britain will—”

“They have never acted like this,” Loftus snapped, glaring at Tom. “Chasing visitors, attacking them. Why, Lady Wilson claimed one of those blasted birds flapped up and stole an earring from her ear!” Loftus snorted. “Never had these problems under the prior Ravenmaster, let that be known.”

“Damn visitors.” The Duke scowled at Loftus. “This is a military fortress, not a seaside resort. Bad enough we have families residing within. Letting civilians in to mill about. Nothing good in that, not one thing good.”

“Their croaks are frantic, and continue for hours,” Loftus continued before the Duke could pontificate on his desired reforms. “Their destruction of property is known, making off with all sorts of small items, plucking at buttons, attacking shoelaces, and their scat—”

“Chalk,” Colonel Doyle said.

Loftus bristled. Tom kept his eyes on the far wall.

The Duke raised one eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Chalk,” Doyle said firmly. “Bird scat is called chalk due to its white appearance.”

“Regardless,” Loftus snapped, “the damage it does to carriages is extensive. They startle the horses, tear up the grass, attack the flowers. Even the leading in the stained-glass windows of the Chapel is not safe from their marauding. Why, the animals in the Tower menagerie have also been acting up, rousing and carrying on as if the world were ending.”

Tom kept his military stance, making every effort not to watch the birds, their feathers splayed against the glass. They were pecking at the putty there, as if to spite the Lieutenant-General. They beat their wings and chortled as their beady eyes gleamed and their sharp black beaks stabbed at the cracks.

“There's another thing that doesn't belong in this venerable fortress, that collection of animals. But come now.” The Duke barked a laugh. “You cannot blame the lad for these things, surely. He's been on duty for, what, less than a month, if I remember correctly.”

“Two months,” Colonel Doyle chimed in.

“And it's two months I've been Constable of the Tower.” The Duke snorted and waved a hand over his papers. “No easy thing, adjusting to our roles, now is it, lad?”

Tom blinked, realizing he was being addressed. “No, sir.”

Wellington turned in his chair, glaring at the window behind him. The birds squawked, flapped their wings, and fell from the sill to glide down to the Tower Green.

The Duke turned back, fixing Tom with an intent look. “Get your soldiers under control, Ravenmaster. Dismissed.”

 • • • 

Stepping outside into the early evening air, Tom took a deep breath that he regretted at once. With no breeze, the smell of the cesspool of a moat and grounds was thick and foul. Mayhap, with luck, the breeze would pick up from the Thames later.

A flash of dark movement to his left caught his eye. He ducked his head, but the raven still managed to strike his black Tudor bonnet, knocking it askew.

With a triumphant croak, the bird glided past to land on the Tower Green. It folded up its wings and strode off, its cackling echoing from the stone walls, its blue-black body an odd contrast to the deep green grass.

Tom adjusted his hat and sighed. To any other eyes, the Tower green seemed lush and healthy. But as an Elemental Master of Earth, he wasn't fooled. The lush green, the flowers planted in the beds along the buildings all hid corruption and taint.

Much like a battlefield, where the dead lay in green fields—

A raven croaked right next to him, and for a moment Tom was back in the fields of the dead, with the birds feasting—

He jerked back to this time and this place and drew another deep breath, almost grateful for the stench.

The ravens strutted around the lawn, cawing to one another, seemingly ignoring him. He wasn't fooled by that, either. They knew full well what time it was, and he knew they were taunting him, and—

He snorted. They were birds, creatures of Air, with little brains or common sense. He was assigning them thoughts and feelings and conspiracies where there were none.

He was as daft as his family back on the Isle of Wight claimed, shaking their heads over his notion to become a Yeoman Warder. They were right, of course, but it mattered not. He loved the Tower, with its history and stories that spanned centuries of time. The only thing that could lure him to the city was the history found here.

That and the anguish the stones held. That pain had called to him, and he'd answered, but not without a cost.

He'd had to cut himself off from his Element, shield himself against the very earth beneath his feet. So far, he'd managed, but it was a close thing. How much longer could he sustain his shields without access to healthy, growing land? Eventually, he'd need to find a way to deal with that problem, but for this moment, he had a different and more difficult task.

He needed to pen the ravens for the night.

It was a tradition, of course, but also a necessity. Foxes were known to get within the walls, coming up out of the river. Other predators, owls and the like, roamed the dark. With their clipped wings, the fool birds were vulnerable, but try to tell them that.

His fellow Warders always enjoyed the entertainment, watching him try to get the ravens in their pens. This evening was no different, and it was long past the hour for his own supper before he'd even managed the first.

The birds gathered around him, just out of reach. Tom let loose a blistering oath from his soldiering days, directed at the foul harbingers of death.

A young chambermaid hurrying past with a bundle of laundry gasped and rushed off.

Tom blushed, clearing his throat in his shame.

Almost as one, the birds cawed and croaked and flapped their wings. Then the biggest one cackled, and the others started to leap into their cages. He slammed the wooden doors shut, securing them tight for the night. Their black eyes peered at him through the wooden slats.

“Air,” he said, hot, tired, and disgusted.

Their mocking cries followed him all the way across the Tower Green.

He'd no watch this night, and felt thankful for that as he trudged back to his quarters. A change, a quick wash, some supper, and then bed, he decided. For he'd have to be up at the break of day to tend his charges, release them from their cages, and feed the evil things their meat.

But upon opening his door, there on his small table sat a small package, covered in rough brown paper and tied with twine. Addressed to him in his ma's handwriting, her pride clear in every letter of his name and title. Tom smiled as the stress of the day eased from his shoulders.

Homesickness and joy both swelled in his heart. There'd be letters, and biscuits if he was lucky, wrapped in that bundle.

He'd wash first. Have a bit of supper. And then he'd open his box and have a bit of home.

 • • • 

There were biscuits. Chocolate ones, with walnuts, mostly reduced to crumbs. That didn't stop him. He scooped up the crumbs with his fingers, munching as he propped himself up on his bed and read his letters.

Ma's first, thanking him for his letter where he'd told of his swearing-in ceremony. His family had all wanted to attend, but their strong Elemental ties made it impossible. As bound to the Isle of Wight as they were, as foul as London was, it would only have brought them illness and misery.

He could hear her joyful voice in her words, telling of all the village gossip. Of young lads leaving for the city for work in the mills and factories. Of lasses either pining or following, and the joys and sorrows thereof. She ended with the usual note.
“You have a good position now, son, and I hope and pray that you are seeking a good wife. Someone to make you happy. Someone to make you a home.”

He rolled his eyes a bit at that one. Unlikely as not that he'd find a woman who'd deal with living in the Tower, his birds, and his magic. Best leave that for another day.

His brother's letter next.
“You're still daft for being there, no matter how the stones call to you,”
and continuing on to insult his intelligence in laughing sentences. But then the letter went on to speak of the crops in a general sense and the rector's daughter's flashing eyes with a great deal more detail.

Tom lifted an eyebrow and smiled. Even if his brother made no mention of an attraction, his ma might soon be busy planning a wedding. Good enough. Take the pressure off his own back.

With a chuckle, he turned to his da's letter, good and thick, with his no-nonsense attitude coming through the sprawling words.

Da started with the fields and the crops, talking about the planting and the condition of the soil. Then there was that far creek, and how it dammed up in a recent storm and washed out the banks, flooding the far most field.
“Little damage, son,”
Tom was relieved to read.
“But I need to rouse your brother and some lads to go in and clear the debris. Just waiting for a fair dry spell to make the work easier. And no worries on your part,”
his da continued.
“I'll be overseeing the work.”

Tom snorted. Aye, that his da would, until he waded in to show them all how it was done.

“Something else, eldest, that you should know
,
”
the letter continued, the writing a bit larger, the ink thicker, as if his da had reached the bottom of the bottle.

Tom stiffened a bit on that, his attention caught as it was meant to be.

“There's been some odd doings here, what with the livestock. The cattle have been gathering in odd ways and bellowing their fool heads off. The sheep have taken to running in panicked circles. The chickens flap their wings and shriek in panic for no reason I can see. Why, even the old cock has taken to crowing at midnight. The songbirds your ma enjoys so much have fled the woods, it seems, and large masses of them have been seen flying off the isle.

“Do you remember Portsmith, a few years back? The earth tremors that hit? Your uncle on your mother's side talked of seeing such things, of tension in the air and land. And your cousin from Holme-on-Spaulding-Moor, in Yorkshire, back in 1822. Said he never had such a fright as the land shifting below him.

“Never seen the like myself, and I'm wondering if you noticed anything there, in your sprawling city, far from the comforts of home and land. It worries me, what such a thing could do in London.

“But all's well here,”
his da continued.
“This family sees to the land, and the land sees to the family. Mind that you see to your own place as well, my son.”

Tom lingered on his da's signature, running his thumb over the ink, but there was nothing more, no magical impressions or hidden words. His da would be cautious until he knew such things were safe.

Tom sighed. Portsmith, Holme-on-Spaulding-Moor. Da was talking about the earthquakes that had rumbled through years back. Tom'd been serving then, out of the country, but he'd heard how the family and other Earth Mages had banded together to ease those quakes from what they might have been. He wasn't sure exactly what they'd done, or how they'd done it, and he cursed himself for a fool for not asking further. All he knew was, it had taken them all working together to mitigate the force and consequences.

And here he was, a lone Earth Master in the City of London, and warning signs abounding.

Could that be it? The ravens, the lions roaring in the Lion's Tower, the upset in the menagerie. Were the creatures all trying to speak to the state of the land?

He looked down at the letters surrounding him without really seeing the pages. It seemed a mite too convenient that such information would arrive just at this moment. His family's powers lay with the Earth, with the occasional Air and Water allies. And the Earth was tied firmly to the present and the past, with no tendency toward foresight. But Tom knew well enough that the Elemental forces of magic had their own paths. To dismiss this as coincidence was to risk ignoring a warning.

That he would not do.

 • • • 

A few days later, Tom got his chance to investigate—after the Ceremony of the Keys, when the Tower was locked up secure for the night, and its residents settled in and cozy in their beds. His watch was the White Tower this night, the oldest tower, and the one with the deepest cellars . . . dungeons years past.

He waited at his post until there was nothing but the depths of the night and the sound of his own breath around him. Then he took up his lantern and headed down the twisting stairs. He'd go down, take care of this business, and then nip back up to his position. And if any should find him, well, he'd say he'd heard a noise.