The Witch Watch (38 page)

Alice nodded, but said nothing.
 
She fingered her watch nervously.

The path ended at a large circle of brick paving, ringed with bright electric lamps. Beyond those was a circle of low hedges, and beyond that were gnarled, sickly trees. There was a set of grand double doors here.

Gilbert pulled them open and led everyone inside. Another pair of guards greeted them with surprise.
 
“‘Evening!” said one cheerfully, giving Gilbert and Simon a strange look. “I’m afraid you’ve missed the meal. The other guests will be in the ballroom now. Just down that hallway and turn left.”

Alice thanked him and they moved on.

“I remember this,” Simon whispered once they were out of earshot. “This is where I met His Lordship,” Simon pointed to a closed door.

Alice opened the door and peeked in.
 
It was a very curious room.
 
On the far wall was another door. There was also a fireplace, some chairs, and a bookshelf.
 
The near side of the room was bare.
 
Between these two halves were strong iron bars that ran from floor to ceiling, with a prison door affording access.
 
The room was dark, but they could clearly see chalk dust had been worked into the floorboards on this side.

Simon stepped a few paces into the room, “I stood here and performed sorcery, while the master and his men sat on the other side of the bars and watched.”

“What are the bars for?” Gilbert asked.

“To protect the observers, obviously,” Alice explained. “It’s common for sorcerers to lock themselves in rooms or other places where their work won’t be a threat to others. If a man dabbles in necromancy, he doesn’t want his creation to escape and menace his family or colleagues.”

They had stepped into the darkened room, while Gilbert stood in the door and held one hand on his sword. “We shouldn't be in here.” he said.

“Are you frightened?” Alice teased. “You can wait in the hall if this is taxing your nerves.”

“Certainly. If a guard comes by I will strike up a conversation to distract him from your trespassing. Perhaps we can have a chat about what it’s like being dead.”

“I wish I could reach that bookshelf,” Alice said, pointing to the opposite side of the room. She held herself against the bars and squinted into the dark. “Someday I will build an electric lantern that can be carried around. I can’t see the spines, and I want to know what they are.”

Simon gripped the door and tugged lightly, “Locked. I don't imagine they would keep the key close at hand.”

“It
would
render the gate pointless,” Alice admitted, nudging Simon out of the way. She produced a pair of small tools from the folds of her dress, and went to work on the lock. After a few seconds of clicking and scraping, the lock gave way and she slid the door open.

“Careful!” Simon whispered as she stepped through to the other side of the room. He looked around nervously.

Alice put her hand on her chin and examined the books. Occasionally she would pull one out and leaf through it.

Finally Gilbert grew impatient, “Have you learned anything?”

“Indeed yes,” she replied, putting back another book. “Our host appears to be a great admirer of Lord Tennyson.”

“A sorcerer?” asked Simon.

“A playwright, I think,” Gilbert said.

“Poet,” Alice corrected him.

“I suppose you’re looking for books of witchcraft. Have you found anything useful to our investigation?” Gilbert asked warily.

“Not a one”, she said with disappointment.

Simon rubbed his finger on the floor, “This is more dust than chalk. It’s been some weeks since the last attempt at sorcery was performed here. I wonder what they were doing.”

Alice rejoined the men on the other side of the room and knelt down to examine the chalk marks, “A shame they erased so thoroughly. I would like to know what they were doing as well.”

“This is truly captivating,” Gilbert said. “I imagine if we apply ourselves for the next several hours we might discover many secrets about how our foes clean their house.”
 
He stepped into the room and let go of the door, which began to swing shut behind him.

Alice lunged and caught the door before it latched, “I’ll thank you not to shut the three of us in a dark room.”
 
She pulled the door open and the light flowed in again. “Look! There is no latch on our side. If the door had shut, we could have been trapped in here.”

Everyone was suddenly anxious to leave the room. She held the door open and motioned them out.

They proceeded down the hall and went left as directed.
 
As they approached the ballroom they could hear the echo of someone addressing a crowd.
 

The ballroom was cavernous.
 
The ceiling was laden with piercing electric lamps that stung the eyes, yet the light seemed ineffectual against the dark wood of the walls. There was a pale green tinge to the room, and a pervasive haze of tobacco smoke sat at eye level. There were perhaps two dozen men gathered near the center of the room, huddling together and sustaining the tobacco cloud.
 
A small number were accompanied by women, but for the most part this affair was attended by men in tuxedos.
 
Most of the heads were white, or gray, or bald.

Sir Edward James Brooks was standing and speaking to the men in a proud, strong voice. Three old fellows stood at his side.

“The four horsemen!” Gilbert whispered, his hand returning to his sword-hilt.

“Steady!” Alice commanded. “We are here to learn what we can. We are
no
t here to assassinate the gentry of London.”

“They’re here. They’re working for Lord Mordaunt. Why not be done with them?” he asked reasonably.

“We caught them in the act of necromancy a few weeks ago. Or at least
, supervisin
g necromancy. If that was not enough to put them up at Tyburn, then I imagine we have even less grounds to walk into their house and assassinate them in front of the most powerful men in Great Britain. You might be immune to hanging, but Simon and I are not, and I would like to keep our necks out of the noose if it’s all the same to you.”

“You’re right,” Gilbert grumbled.

The crowd was laughing. Brooks had charmed them with wine and wit, and they were nodding and laughing as he spoke. “Now, I want to introduce a few friends of mine,” he said brightly. “I’m sure you saw them at dinner, but they’re much too humble to announce themselves.
 
Humility is not one of my vices, so that duty falls to me.”

Brooks was standing in front of the crowd. The other three horsemen stood at his side, looking slightly self-conscious. All of them wore dark suits. Brooks pointed to the oldest, “Perhaps some of you recognized this gentleman? This is General Bornholdt. Despite his reputation, he’s a fine fellow.”
 

“As long as you’re not Russian!” one man joked before returning his pipe to his mouth.

“Quite right!” Brooks smiled.

The other guests nodded appreciatively, except for a young man in uniform, who began a sudden and incongruous clap. There was a look of awe on his face.

“The serious looking fellow next to the general is Benedict Butler, the man who brought electric light to London.”
 
There was polite applause at this. “And finally Judge Brown. Do not mistake his silence for rudeness. Since his sentences end mostly in death and transportation, his silence is actually the gentlest of compliments.”
 
This earned another laugh from everyone except for Brown himself, who did not look like a man who knew how to smile. He nodded politely.

Brooks continued, “But as excellent and as noteworthy as my colleagues are, I did not call you here tonight to meet them.
 
No, I invited you here because I have something important to tell you.”
 
Here the laughing and whispering in the room stopped.
 
A man stopped himself from re-lighting his pipe, lest he make unwanted noise.
 
The crowd hung on Brooks, who gazed out at them with a cunning gleam in his eye.
 
Brooks was a skilled orator, which no doubt explained his endless success as a politician, and tonight he was playing the crowd like an instrument.

There was a significant pause as the anticipation in the audience built.
 
Finally Brooks continued, “I want to talk to you about our beloved Great Britain. She is not as strong or as dominant as she was a century ago.
 
Our forefathers left us the greatest nation in the history of civilization, but if we are not very careful we stand the risk of giving our children much less. The American colonies rebelled and we allowed them to slip away.
 
Now they are expanding, thriving, discovering gold. That fortune and prosperity is ours by right.
 
Their riches should be flowing to our shores.
 
We sowed the crop. We cultivated it. And now harvest time is come and we have no share in it. Instead of prosperity, we have a rival.”

Brooks paused and met the eyes of many in the crowd.
 
They nodded as his gaze fell on them.

He continued, “Thirty years ago we fought the Russian War, and paid too high a price for our gains, and shared too much of it with the undeserving French.” The general nodded firmly at this, and a look of bitterness overcame his face. “Now the Transvaal Colony has rejected our rule.
 
I wonder if any nation will be inclined to yield to us.
 
And indeed, I can hardly blame them.
 
They look to us for guidance, enlightenment, and leadership.
 
If we cease to provide those things, then is it any surprise that they would seek to rule themselves? If we cannot lift the colonies out of their savagery, then we do not deserve our place as the leaders of the world. Perhaps the French will do a better job? Or the Italians? The Germans? India has rejected our rule once, or tried to. Was it their fault that they turned from us? Did they reject our greatness, or have we simply failed to be great?”

The audience was quiet for a moment as Brooks allowed them to consider the question. Finally he continued, “Each colony that kicks away from us dooms itself, to be sure.
 
But worse than that, every failure to keep control only encourages the others to rebel. The world is a great scale, you see.
 
On one side is civilization, and on the other is savagery. We are gathering all we can onto our side, the side of civilization. Bad enough that our losses take away from our side, but they are then added to the other, multiplying our failures!”

Brooks took up a glass of wine.
 
A few others lifted their glasses, thinking he had been working up to a toast.
 
But he drained the glass and set it back down again without a word.
 
His mood was serious. “Much of this is a problem of leadership. Who can lead a nation? Those of you who know me well can recall my tales from the floor of Parliament. It is an orchestra of madness.
 
Fools, elected by the ignorant and educated by the idealistic, are sent to accomplish contradictory goals. For my part, I strive to soften the blows of madness that Parliament inflicts, but that is only slowing the poison. No, the healing our nation needs cannot be provided by men in my position. Forgive me, for I am not trying to bore you with politics.”

The audience was hardly bored, but appreciated his humility. They were nearly holding their breath, waiting to see where the man was going with such scandalous talk. Brooks paced a bit and gestured to one of the servants to refill his glass.
 
After another drink, he continued, “Where was I? Ah yes. Leadership. Who can lead a nation? And if that nation is Great Britain, then who can lead the world? Kings? Sometimes. But kings are flesh and blood, and prey to the frailties of men. In their youth, they are brash and short-sighted.
 
In their age they are addled and absorbed with their impending demise. Only a few years in the middle give us a hale man of character and leadership.
 
That is, assuming he is a man and nobody has done anything so foolish as to put us under a queen.”

The older men laughed readily at this, while the younger men smiled nervously and looked to the women at their side, who were stony-faced.

“It’s an endless cycle”, Brooks continued. “A young prince is frustrated with his father’s neglect towards the kingdom, and fantasizes about all of the grand changes he will make when the power rests on his shoulders.
 
Then at last! He takes the throne and behaves with exceeding foolishness.
 
After some time he learns from his failures and spends his middle years correcting his old mistakes and fending off challengers to the throne.
 
Finally, age overcomes him and he drifts away, while his son dreams of the grand changes he will someday make.
 
The pattern repeats for decades. Centuries. Millennia. A king has too few good years to push us forward. How many good years? It depends on the man, I suppose. Truly, we are a doomed species.