Updates

Hi, everyone

This is just a short update – sorry.  <grin>,

Basically, my family and I have been in Malaysia for the last month and I’ve been doing my best to take it easy (helped by the fact I got a lot done shortly before we left and I’m just waiting on the edits for The Prince’s Alliance, All for All and Chrishangers.  I’ve really just done a handful of chapters of Queenmaker for the blog and a short novella for Fantastic Schools, entitled The Muckraker’s Tale.

The Muckraker’s Tale is set in the SIM universe, but it presents a very different character – someone Emily might not like, if they met.  It’s also set between The Artful Apprentice and Oathkeeper, and features an aspect of the universe Emily had no interest in and was never forced to pretend otherwise.  I’m hoping people will like it.  I’m also considering ways to expand the story into a full novel, but it depends on reception. 

I’ve also been plotting more stories, including The Demon’s Design, which will be the first of a new story arc for Emily, and The Revolutionary War, which will be a return to the universe of The Royal Sorceress and tie up some plot threads while laying others.  I also intend to plot Lone World at some point, which is the direct sequel to Endeavour, but I haven’t got too far on that yet. 

My current plans are to keep taking it easy until I get home, whereupon:

Aug – The Conjuring Man (The Cunning Man Finale)

Sept – The Revolutionary War (The Royal Sorceress 5)

Oct – The Alchemist’s Secret (The Zero Enigma)

Nov – Pandora’s Box (Special Project – more later).

And, of course, I intend to continue with Queenmaker.

What do you think?

Chris

Book Review – The Armchair General: Can You Defeat The Nazis?

The Armchair General: Can You Defeat The Nazis?

-John Buckley

If you were the decision-maker at the turning points of WW2, knowing what they knew at the time, could you do better?  Or worse?

One of the fundamental problems with writing alternate histories is that writers have the benefit of hindsight.  The mistakes of the past are laid bare, with all their disastrous consequences exposed, to the point it becomes very easy to condemn the people of the time for making them.  This is misleading, because the people who made the decisions didn’t have the advantage of hindsight.  They had to make decisions based on what they knew at the time, not on truths that seem self-evident to their descendents.  It is easy to say, for example, that Churchill should have made a major commitment to North Africa earlier than OTL, but Churchill could not be sure Operation Sealion was a non-starter until much later than any of his critics.  Indeed, most of the great mistakes of the past – studied without hindsight – start looking more like the best course of action at the time.

John Buckley has attempted to outline this by taking a new approach to alternate history.  Instead of picking a single POD and detailing the possible consequences – the approach taken by military alternate history writers such as Kenneth Macksey and Peter Tsouras – Buckley presents eight moments of WW2 history where the right or wrong choices would determine the course of history, outlines what the major players knew at the time (as best as can be determined) and invites you to consider what decisions you might make.  This may seem like a simplistic Choose Your Own Adventure game book, and indeed it does come across as something akin to it, but it is soundly grounded in real history and – to a very large extent – keeps the alternate outcomes very realistic (and discusses why the ‘right’ answer was not always evident at the time.)

For example, with the advantage of hindsight, Winston Churchill was the obvious man to lead Britain to victory in WW2.  This was not evident at the time, as Buckley makes clear; Churchill’s war record was something of a mixed bag (he successfully evaded much of the blame for the Norwegian disaster), he had enemies in high places and, worst of all, there was no obvious way for Britain to actually win.  The French had been crushed, the Italians were on the verge of entering the war … was it not time, people asked, for Britain to fold its cards and seek peace with Adolf Hitler when Britain still had something to use as a bargaining tool?  Buckley makes a very good case that the decision to continue the war was nowhere near as inevitable as it might seem.  Halifax, as PM, might have decided to bring the war to an end before it was too late.

Even if Churchill becomes PM, there are still problems facing the reader.  Should Britain make a secret approach to Hitler through Mussolini’s good offices?  If Churchill agrees, he may find himself presented with terms he’d find it hard to refuse (although the idea of Hitler keeping any agreements he made was laughable after Munich) or face a revolt in the Cabinet as the doves force a leadership contest; if he refuses, he may face the leadership contest anyway. 

The book is at pains to note that while private discussions with Hitler were a bad idea, they weren’t outrageously bad.  Halifax – as either PM or Foreign Secretary – had a duty to explore all options, although one doesn’t need hindsight to know Hitler couldn’t be trusted.  (The book does reserve some scorn for Samuel Hoare, who clearly learnt nothing from the run-up to war.)

The book then shifts to North Africa and, in doing so, casts light on the very limited options available to Churchill and the Vichy French.  Was it a mistake to divert British troops to Greece in 1941?  The outcome of the troops remaining in North Africa, according to Buckley, suggests both yes and no.  On one hand, Italian Libya would have been crushed well before the Germans could move troops into position to support their allies; on the other, it would have set off a political firestorm in French North Africa and Vichy France.  The book points out that French options were, in some ways, the most limited of all.  If they supported the British, Germany would take revenge on mainland France; if they fought, they’d be drawn ever-further into collaboration and submission. 

The book moves from Britain to Russia and asks, grimly, what the Russians should have done after the Germans invaded?  Should they keep Stalin or take advantage of his momentary discomfort to overthrow him?  Regardless, should they fight to hold Moscow or seek peace with Germany, even one on unfavourable terms?  This is, in many ways, the hardest part of the book to follow.  Stalin was a monster, Hitler’s equal in mass genocide, yet without his iron will would Russia survive long enough for the tide to turn?  It is hard to say.  On one hand, Stalin was strong because he allowed no strong followers (ensuring his successor wouldn’t share his powers); on the other, Stalin’s mistakes in the run up to the war were disastrous.  What should you do?  Buckley presents a nuanced answer.

Even as the tide turns in Russia’s favour, there was still no guarantee of a Russian victory, raising the prospect of a somewhat more balanced peace.  What if the Russians signed a treaty with Germany in 1943 and bowed out of the war?  Unlikely?  Perhaps, perhaps not – Russia had suffered badly in the war and the prospect of a Second Front had been put back to 1944.  The book outlines the problems facing the Russians, then details what might have happened if the two sides agreed on a treaty.

This leads into another possibility – a Second Front in 1943.  The overall outlook for an invasion isn’t as bad as is often suggested, at least on paper, but Buckley is careful to make clear that there were good reasons to put the invasion off until 1944.  The defences were weak – true – but American troops weren’t ready to fight Germans and the British could not afford a major disaster.  The book suggests that an invasion in 1943 wouldn’t have been a complete disaster, but it wouldn’t have won the war as quickly as its proponents hoped and ended with the allies effectively trapped in a pocket, needing to break out before they could resume the advance.  But a solid lodgement in France would make it a great deal easier for the US to reinforce the troops, then take the offensive in 1944.  It would certainly improve logistics!

Having looked at overall strategy, the book also looks at two major battles – Operation Market Garden/Arnhem – and Midway – that might have gone differently, if the people involved had made different decisions.  This is, unfortunately, a less convincing pair of scenarios.  An American defeat at Midway would be embarrassing and painful, but the Japanese would find it incredibly costly to take Midway and they’d still be ground under by the sheer weight of American production in the next two years.  Market Garden, by contrast, might provide better results if the operation was more limited, but Buckley believes it would not have made a major difference.  He might well be right.  The planning for Market Garden was flawed right from the start.

The book also studies two technical POD, the decision to concentrate on aerial bombing and to fund atomic research.  The former, I think although I may be wrong, is a little over-optimistic.  Bomber Command never had the technology for precision bombing and, while there was something to be said for developing a dive-bomber capability to match Germany, I doubt improving the bombing fleet to the point it could do real damage was feasible.  Putting more resources to the naval war might work better, perhaps defeating the U-Boats earlier than OTL, but it hard to be sure because the Germans would still be deploying U-Boats.  I think this is probably the weakest part of the book.

The idea of not funding atomic research is a little vaguer than the rest of the possible outlines, but does suggest it might well have happened.  Atomic science was in its infancy and no one could be sure it was worth it.  If it wasn’t funded … what then?  Buckley suggests Japan would have been invaded instead, followed by a possible war against Russia.  He also suggests the German program would never have produced a viable weapon, although – again – it is hard to be sure.  A Germany that didn’t drive most of its best minds into exile would, at least in theory, have a solid ground for atomic research.

Overall, the book does a decent job at presenting the background, including what the key players knew at the time, and outlining possible alternatives.  It is easy to say, of course, that the reader should always follow the ‘right’ path, but the book is good at making clear there was no obviously right path.  Buckley picks PODs where there is a surprising amount of ambiguity and it shows.  I think he was careful to avoid PODs where the right thing to do was obvious.

When presenting characters – historical figures – he also places them in context and makes it clear that they will benefit personally from their decisions (or perhaps not – a known backstabber, even with a good cause, will never be trusted again.)  This is fascinating, in that it sometimes shines light on minor figures who stood – for a brief moment – at a turning point in history.  He makes them come alive as men who could, if they made the wrong choice, doom both themselves and their countries.

It is possible, of course, to argue that his decision to limit the scope of his alternate outcomes was a bad one.  But, looking at history from decades in the future, it is clear the idea of a world-bestriding Reich was the stuff of fantasy rather than sober reality.  Few choices would have been completely disastrous (possibly the only real disaster would be Russia making peace in 1941) and Buckley, I think, made it clear. 

He also, for better or worse, shies away from assessing the enemy’s decisions.  It would be interesting to assess Hitler’s decisions (as well as his Italian and Japanese counterparts) and see how well they hold up based on what he actually knew, but it would be incredibly controversial.  He also makes a handful of notes about Churchill not being politically correct by today’s standards, a point that not only detracts from the text but also raises the issue of looking at the world through Stalin’s eyes.  (Although, to be fair, he does call Stalin a psychopath and suggests a Molotov-headed government would be better for Russia.)  While this may be true, and Churchill has been attacked recently by people who think modern values can be projected back into the past, they would not have any bearing on his contemporaries.  Being an imperialist, and believing the British Empire was a force for good in the world, was not regarded as a bad thing in 1940 and the idea it would have entered anyone’s calculations is absurd.

If you’re in to alternate history, or even history in general, I think you’ll like this book. 

Book Review – Mussolini’s War: Fascist Italy from Triumph to Collapse, 1935-1943

Mussolini’s War: Fascist Italy from Triumph to Collapse, 1935-1943

-John Gooch

What was Mussolini thinking?

Italy’s performance in the Second World War is often taken as the stuff of light comedy.  The Italians were, we are told, comic opera actors who ran away when the first shots were fired and needed to be bailed out, repeatedly, by Adolf Hitler and Nazi Germany.  Their participation in the war was a net drain on German resources, to the point they played a role in Germany’s ultimate defeat by fighting alongside them.  In the (possible) words of Helmuth von Moltke the Younger, being allied with Italy meant being shackled to a corpse.  The best thing the Italians could have done for their allies was staying out of the war.

The misconception the Italians were always nothing more than cowards and incompetents has made it hard for anyone to assess their participation with a clear eye.  Mussolini was – is – a figure of fun, a harmless blimp who could be mocked relentlessly while there was and remains very little funny about Adolf Hitler.  And yet, John Gooch has attempted to peer through the myths and legends of Italy’s war and ask precisely how and why the Italians did so badly.  It is a dense tome, but none the less important if you want to get into the nuts and bolts of the war.

On a operational level, the Italians were never as bad as their detractors claimed.  When they had a workable plan, and the support they needed, they tended to do a great deal better than the stereotype.  Their invasion of Ethiopia was reasonably well planned and conducted with a certain degree of competence.  Their participation in the Spanish Civil War was, again, reasonably competent.  They made an attempt at an early blitzkrieg-style offensive that worked better than anyone had a right to expect, although not enough to prove Italy’s military might by winning the war.  Their early contribution to Operation Barbarossa involved a number of reasonably well-equipped divisions that did fairly well, up to Stalingrad.  They did not, of course, face the Red Army alone, but they did better than one might think,

When they lacked support and planning, the Italians tended to do very badly.  The plan to invade Egypt was poor and the planning for Greece almost non-existent, to the point the offensive barely got off the ground and – in both cases – the Italians came very close to a decisive defeat.  Morale crumbled when senior leadership was not up to the task – and it rarely was – leading to countless Italians simply throwing down their guns and walking into POW camps.

Italy’s strategic thinking was almost non-existent too.  There was no clear-eyed assessment of Italy’s power relative to Britain, France (even in 1940, after the French were effectively beaten by the Germans), Russia and America.  The result was strategic chaos.  Italy might have made a far more worthwhile contribution to the war by invading Malta in 1940, which would probably have been a walkover, but instead Mussolini tried to invade France and Egypt, in hopes of securing claims to territory when Britain sought terms with Nazi Germany.  Britain did not, of course, seek terms and so the Italians found themselves out on a limb.

Many of these problems can be blamed on Mussolini.  He was shrewd enough to make a bid for leadership, when Italy found itself in economic trouble, but he lacked the intellect and realism to understand the reality of his position.  His country was incredibly dependent on outside trade, ensuring the war would swiftly lead to Italy’s industries grinding to a halt.  He lacked the forward planning to compensate, insofar as it was possible, and even if he had the Italian economy probably couldn’t have adapted.  The Germans offered Italy plans for advanced tanks and aircraft, which were rejected as Italy couldn’t afford to churn them out even with the plans. 

These problems pervaded Italy’s power structure.  There was very little formal cooperation between the army, the navy and the air force.  Mussolini lacked a general staff capable of forcing his officers to work together, let alone point them at a single goal.  Italy had too many incompetents in high places, not all of whom could be removed when their incompetence was too clear to be missed. 

In a sense, Mussolini shot his bolt too soon.  Italy helped Franco win his war at a very high cost, very little of which was ever repaid.  (The author points out that the ultimate effects of Italy not trying to help Franco are unknowable.)  Italy burnt up too much of its deployable forces and military stockpiles, ensuring the armies that tried to seize Egypt and Greece were dangerously weak.  Italy lacked the resources to experiment with better weapons and tactics and rapidly found itself outmatched by both Britain and Russia.  The fact the Germans had more and better of everything was a constant source of resentment amongst the Italian military.

The combination of operational, tactical, strategic and geopolitical weaknesses ensured Italy would eventually become more and more dependent on Germany.  Mussolini’s dreams of fighting a separate war were rapidly proved to be nothing more nothing more than delusions and the Germans, despite Hitler’s personal affection for Mussolini, were quick to understand it and gave the Italians very little freedom of movement.  Even without that, the Germans simply lacked the resources Italy needed.  The Italians cut themselves off from the sources of supply they needed to survive. 

The book also sheds new light on Italian anti-partisan efforts, which were – like the rest of the country’s war effort – a very mixed bag.  The Italians did better than the Germans on anti-partisan efforts in Russia – they had the advantage of being neither Nazis nor Communists – but their anti-partisan efforts in the Balkans were marked with the same savage brutality as the Nazis, Russians and Japanese efforts elsewhere.  The problem was made worse by deeply corrupt military leadership, who preferred to loot and enjoy themselves rather than trying to solve a problem that was probably beyond solving.  These efforts came to an end when Italy left the war, with a surprising number of Italians joining the partisans and fighting the Nazis. 

Italy’s departure from the war was marred with the same incompetence that marked its entry.  It was hard for anyone to plot Mussolini’s ouster, both because he was still surprisingly popular and because Hitler would be sure to react badly.  Ironically, it was the Fascist Party that moved against him first.  The timing was badly handled and what hope there was of allied troops entering Italy in time to deter a German invasion was rapidly lost.  Italy became a battleground for the rest of the war, a problem that could have been avoided if their leader had shown a certain amount of common sense.

Could Italy have done better?

The short answer is yes.  Staying out of the war would have been better for Italy and Nazi Germany.  If Italy had been determined to take part in the fighting, in hopes of snatching booty before the peace treaty, it would have been better to concentrate on Malta and North Africa rather than France or Greece.  Malta was barely defended in those days, while a reinforced and mobile Italian army might have been able to push to the Suez Canal and occupy Egypt before the British redeployed their forces to keep the Italians out.  If Italy had done so well, it would have offered the best chance for Italy to keep its gains and avoid being overshadowed by the Germans.

This would, however, have required Mussolini to be the thing he wasn’t – a practical man who understood his limits, and that of his military, and stayed within them.  Instead, he set his country on a path that led to its inevitable destruction, the downfall of his regime and his own execution.

This is not a biography of Mussolini.  But if you want to know why Italy did so badly, this is the book for you.  It does jump around a little, and it can be a bit wordy at times, but overall it is well worth a read.

Snippet – The Muckraker’s Tale

This is the start of a Fantastic Schools novella. As always, comments are warmly welcomed.

Prologue

This is the greatest story ever told.

Hyperbole, of course.  But Dad always said a little hyperbole never hurt anyone and believe me, he should know.  He was a broadsheet reporter before broadsheets were even invented and his job meant he had to keep himself employed by keeping his clients invested in his work.  If that meant exaggerating a few details, he did it.  And he had very few qualms about it too.

My father was a bastard, in birth if not in behaviour.  He was born on the wrong side of the blankets and while his father had made provisions for his support and education, the rest of his family were nowhere near so welcoming.  His stepmother hated him – he was a grim reminder that her conduct had to be above reproach while her husband could go whoring and no one would say a word – and his half-brothers and sisters loathed him.  He had a reasonably decent education, but what could he do with it?  I don’t blame him for going into quasi-exile and heading to Dragon’s Den, where talent sometimes rose above birth and breeding.  He had enough magic as well as education to make a living for himself.  And he had something to offer.

His family wanted to know what was going on in Dragon’s Den.  Who was in, who was out, who was on the rise and who was going down … my father, armed with talent and determination and a certain willingness to let the pureblood aristocrats make fools of themselves, slotted neatly into his new role as correspondent.  He collected gossip, verified it as best as he could, and then wrote it in letters for his clients.  He called himself a correspondent and wrote to anyone willing to pay his fees.  They called him a muckraker and regarded him with the same kind of loathing and contempt they reserved for whores, scullery maids and mercenaries, even as they made use of their services.  Dad found it amusing to watch how none of them would be seen in public with him, but begged him – when they were firmly out of the public eye – to keep them informed of what was going on.  The first person to hear the news, in the distant mansions of the rich and aristocratic, would have an edge over his competitors.  And Dad was the best in the business.

He had few principles, but the ones he did have he held tightly.  He dug up the truth as best as he could and did everything in his power to make sure it was the truth.  He guarded his reputation for honesty like aristocratic women guarded their reputations for chastity.  Truth was a defence against his clients, when they questioned his word.  They considered him a deniable and ultimately expendable asset, but they knew better than to break their word with him.  He’d ensure the entire world knew what they’d done and no one would ever trust them again.

I don’t know how he survived long enough to get married and have a daughter, let alone raise her to follow in his footsteps.  His profession was a hazardous one.  By his retelling – and for once I don’t think there was any hyperbole – he’d come close to death a thousand times in his first decade as a correspondent.  He’d been beaten up by private guards, turned into animals and objects by magicians, even attacked in the streets by faceless assassins who could have been sent by anyone, anyone at all.  Mum always feared that one day he’d go out in pursuit of a story and never come back, but he survived.  Personally, I suspected it was because he was useful to everyone, even the ones who hated him.  They didn’t kill him because they wanted to make use of him.  His best tips often came from people who wanted to make trouble for their rivals.

And then the New Learning changed everything.

Dad was the best in the business, but even he couldn’t write to everyone.  There weren’t many scribes willing to work for him – the Scribes Guild frowned on correspondents – and there were limits to how much news he could send to his contacts.  The printing press and cheap paper changed all that.  Dad bought one of the first presses and expanded his services, then – when he heard about broadsheets – started his own.  Everyone – everyone who thought they were anyone, at least – bought copies, just to make sure their names weren’t amongst the gossip.  The vast majority of new broadsheets lasted only a few editions before folding and vanishing, their writers and editors unable to bring in enough money to keep themselves going, but Dad survived and prospered and grew wealthy.  He was rich enough to send me to Whitehall to study magic.  And that was when I started the school newsletter.

Whitehall Times was my baby.  I liked to think it would keep the students informed of what was going on, from minor matters to major; I liked to think its stories would rock the establishment and keep the tutors honest, as well as giving the students a chance to get involved in running the school.  But, in truth, my lofty dreams crashed straight into reality.  It wasn’t easy to keep the paper interesting and some of my colleagues had weird ideas of what would actually sell copies.  I mean, who cared about the kitchen staff’s plans for the dinner welcoming the new students?  They served the same thing every year!

I told myself we needed a scoop.  And fast.

And that, my readers, was why I was sneaking into the sport captain’s office on a very early morning.

Chapter One

If you ask an old student of Whitehall, they will tell you there is a tradition of trying to sneak into the offices and escape without being caught.  What they won’t tell you, I reflected sourly as I made my way through the air vents, is that it is very hard to avoid being caught.  The youngest and least experienced of the tutors still has at least five or six years of experience on even the oldest students, meaning that it is rare for anyone to get through the wards and escape without being detected.  They may tell you that you’ll get a pass, if you steal the exam questions ahead of time, but it hardly ever happens.  It’s much more likely you’ll be trapped in the wards and held prisoner, until the tutor arrives to free you.  And then you’ll be in deep trouble.

I concentrated on breathing through my mouth as I crawled onwards.  The sports captain had been careful, very careful, to protect the doors to her office and I doubted I could crack them, certainly not without setting off the alarms.  But, like most students who weren’t particularly interested in the nuts and bolts of her profession, she might have missed the air vents when she layered wards over her office to keep out intruders.  It was claustrophobic as hell – and I was sure there were mutated rats scurrying around in the darkness – but no magic blocked my way as I reached the end of the passage and peered through the darkness.  I’d checked the outline of the office carefully, the last time I’d been forced to enter, and if I was right …

Got it, I thought.

I smirked.  Someone – years ago – had put a cupboard right in front of the air vent.  Out of sight, out of mind.  Juliet of House Remora, Captain-General Sports, wasn’t an idiot – idiotic students rarely made it to the uppermost years – but she was very single minded and I doubted she’d bothered to take the furniture out to make sure there were no concealed passageways or air vents.  Hell, for all I knew, she might have thought the walls were rock solid.  It seemed an unpardonable oversight to me, but Dad had told me it was astonishing what people took for granted.  He’d spent his fair share of the time spying on his targets from a safe distance.  Sometimes, he’d discovered – too late – that it wasn’t anything like safe enough.

Perhaps I should have felt guilty, as I drew the charmed ear trumpet from my pouch and pressed it to my ear.  Dad had never had any qualms about spying on people, but he’d grown up in a mansion where there was no real privacy.  The staff had orders to keep an eye on all the children, even the ones who’d reached their majority.  They’d certainly kept a very strict eye on him.  I drew the line at spying on someone in their bedroom, but otherwise?  The sporting section was open to all.  And besides, it was a matter of public interest.

Of course it is, I told myself.  Everyone wants to know how the sporting captains lay their plans for the year.

It was, I had to admit, a frustrating problem.  In theory, anyone could start a sports team and declare themselves a captain.  In practice, the well-connected students had a much better chance of making their team last long enough to play their first game, let alone enough to become a permanent part of the school.  The old teams had been around for years, the captaincies carefully passed down from student to student in a bid to ensure power remained in the right set of hands.  Sports was serious business – or so I’d been told; personally I’d never been inclined to care – and organising the teams was of vital importance.  And the process was anything, but transparent.  How did they do it?

Bribes, probably, I thought.  Give the captain money – or a promise of future favours – and you’ll be on the team.

I rolled my eyes.  School sports were more than just a chance to blow off steam on the playing fields.  The sportsmen could – and did – make contacts that would help them climb to the top, after they left school.  I’d heard rumours of sports captains making all sorts of trades to ensure they got the right players – the well-connected or otherwise useful, rather than brilliant players – and there was a lot of resentment amongst those who couldn’t make the grade.  I didn’t pretend to understand why the staff hadn’t cracked down on it to ensure everyone got a fair chance of playing in the championship league, but perhaps it served a vital purpose.  Or perhaps they simply didn’t care.

Grandmaster Gordian started a Duelling Club, I recalled.  Surely, he’ll care if I prove the captains are taking bribes.

My ear trumpet twitched.  I smirked.  I’d have been caught in an instant if I’d sneaked a probe into the chamber, unless Juliet had bribed someone to take her exams for her, but it was astonishing just how far sound could travel even within a deadening privacy ward.  I twisted the trumpet, trying to pick out the words without making a sound myself.  It wasn’t easy to get anything.  It sounded as if they were sharing a drink, perhaps even a dinner.  I guessed one of the richer students had laid out a buffet, in hopes of impressing his fellow captains.  It was the sort of thing they’d do.

“I’d like to take Cameron,” a male voice said.  I couldn’t be sure, but the sheer dripping entitlement in the tone suggested it was a very snooty student indeed.  There were only a handful of suspects.  “Can I trade him for Gabby?”

“Gabby isn’t good enough for my team,” Juliet said.  Her voice had rubbed me the wrong way from the very first day we’d met, when she’d been charged with mentoring me and a bunch of other girls.  She’d done as little as she could get away with and, unsurprisingly, she’d gotten away with it.  “She’s certainly not a fitting replacement for Cameron.”

“She does have the looks,” the male student said.  I could hear the leer in his voice.  “I thought you chose your team based on looks?”

I didn’t need to see Juliet’s face to sense her anger.  “A team must be more than just presentable,” she said.  I’d been told she paid for uniforms for her entire team, binding them to her.  “And you, Blair, should know better than to make such an offer.”

Curse him, I thought.  Or something.

I kept the thought to myself.  Blair was a swaggering, boastful, outrageous pain in the ass who somehow – even I had to admit – managed to lead his team to victory time and time again.  I felt a twinge of sympathy for Juliet.  Blair was two years younger than her and normally she could have shut him down with a few well-chosen words – or hexes – but he was also a captain and she had to treat him as an equal.  And he took full advantage …

“Perhaps I could make an offer for him instead,” a third voice said.  “If I trade you Miller and Parkinson …”

I forced myself to relax and listen as the conversation went on and on.  I’d been sure the process was corrupt, right from the start, but it was still astonishing to discover how little sportsmanship played in the negotiations.  They talked about their players as though they were nothing more than pieces on a gameboard, to be shuffled around at will.  The idea they might have thoughts and feelings of their own was alien to them … I shook my head as one captain offered a bribe and another accepted, arranging a player’s transfer without bothering to ask what he thought of it.  The hell of it was that they’d probably get away with it.  A player who refused to transfer would be kicked out of the team and never allowed to play again.

And I can do something with this, I told myself.  I had an amazing story ready to go.  As long as I was careful, I could get the broadsheet printed and distributed before Juliet and her peers realised what I was doing.  And then … I’d have to watch my back for a few days, but it would be worth it.  Their players would revolt against them if they knew how casually they were being traded.  It will make the paper …

Something landed on my butt, something sharp.  I yelped, stifling myself an instant too late.  Dad had taught me how to be stealthy, but … I heard someone shout and swore under my breath, crawling back as fast as I could.  The sound had carried into the room and they were looking for me … how long would it take for them to realise where I was?  Not long … I heard breaking wood behind me and crawled faster, knowing they’d torn the cupboard from the wall.  I felt a pair of questing spells coming after me and deflected them as best as I could, even as I found the next air vent and pushed it open, darting through it as the last of thje spells faded away.  If I was lucky, I should be able to get out the door and down the corridor at breakneck speed before they cut me off.  If … magic snapped at me, invisible hands pulling me back to the vent.  Shrewd thinking on their part, I conceded.  If they trapped me, they’d have all the time in the world to compel me to forget what I’d heard.  Dad had told me he was sure he’d had a slice gapped out of his memory once or twice. 

Creepy, I thought.  There were mental disciplines to recall memories magicians wanted you to forget, but they were unreliable.  I was no expert.  If they catch me …

I pushed the spell aside with an effort and ran through the door, heading down the corridor.  They hadn’t gotten a good look at me.  They’d have to conclude it could have been anyone, if I made it to the upper levels.  Students running around as if a tiger was on their tail was hardly an uncommon sight and not everyone liked the captains.  They’d keep their mouth shut, probably.  I hoped so.

Magic spiked, behind me.  The spell slammed into my back.  My body froze, then tumbled to the ground.  The impact would have hurt if the spell hadn’t been binding me in place.  I cursed as I tried desperately to cast a counterspell.  Juliet was strong, stronger than I’d dared admit to myself.  I could have escaped one of my peers, if they’d frozen me, but not an older student.  A strong hand gripped mine and rolled me over.  I found myself looking up into Juliet’s blue eyes.

She was beautiful.  Beautiful and cold.  Long blonde hair framed a delicate face and hung over muscular shoulders.  Juliet was no academic, but everyone knew she was one of the best sportswomen in school.  She was proud, tough, and not given to allowing anyone to get away with the slightest hint of disrespect.  And she’d caught me spying on her.

I wanted to wince, but I couldn’t move a muscle.  I was in deep shit.  Older students were not allowed to pick on younger students, a rule I suspected was honoured in the breach rather more than the observance, but if the younger student started something the older student was allowed to finish it.  Juliet could curse me and swear blind it was a terrible accident or … I heard running footsteps coming up behind her and groaned mentally.  The other captains would demand harsh punishment.  I was really in deep shit.

“And what,” a mild voice asked, “is going on here?”

Juliet’s face tightened.  I felt a flash of hope, mingled with a strange and bitter resignation.  I’d been saved by the grandmaster and … oh, no one was ever going to let me forget it.  It would be better if I’d taken my lumps and then put the matter behind me.  Instead …

“We caught Janet spying on us,” Juliet said, and explained.  I was surprise she tattled so quickly – and in so much detail.  Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised.  If the grandmaster thought they were picking on me for no reason, they might be expelled.  “And we were going to bring her to you.”

My name is Jane, I thought, angrily.  Did Juliet really not remember me?  Or was she being insulting?  It was unlikely the grandmaster would call her on it and if he did, she had plausible deniability.  Damn it!

“I see.”  Grandmaster Gordian made a dismissive gesture with one hand.  I found myself suddenly free.  My body collapsed in a heap.  “Jane, accompany me.”

I staggered to my feet, all too aware of Juliet’s eyes burning into my back, and followed the grandmaster as he led the way to his office.  Passing students stared at me, wondering what I’d done to draw the attention of the grandmaster himself.  Was it pity in their eyes, or amusement?  It was always hard to tell.  The grandmaster was supposed to keep himself aloof from the younger students, or so I’d been told.  He’d certainly never spoken to me in private before, even when I’d put together the proposal for Whitehall Times.  I wondered, sometimes, if there’d been a debate amongst the staff, or if they’d just rubber-stamped the paper without bothering to read it.  My broadsheet wasn’t the strangest proposal that had been approved …

I’d never been in the grandmaster’s office before.  I couldn’t help looking around with interest, my eyes drinking in the bookshelves, the portraits and the heavy wooden desk positioned in the centre of the room.  The grandmaster’s chair was suspiciously close to a throne.  He motioned for me to stay on the near side of the desk as he took his seat and scowled.  I clasped my hands behind my back to keep them from shaking.  It was almost a relief there was no chair for me.

“Perhaps you could tell me,” the grandmaster said, “precisely why you were spying on the captains?”

His tone was mild, but I didn’t need to hear the ice to know I’d better come up with a very good explanation indeed.  And I didn’t think I could.  Spying on one’s fellow students might be a hallowed tradition, but so were harsh punishments for anyone who got caught.

“I’m waiting,” the grandmaster said.  “Why?”

I met his eyes.  “The student body has long wanted to know precisely how the sports captains make their selections, sir,” I said, carefully.  “The captains themselves don’t tell the candidates how and why they make their choices, they just issue the final results and force everyone to accept them.”

“There is nothing stopping the disappointed from founding their own teams,” the grandmaster pointed out, in the same mild tones. “There is room for everyone.”

“There isn’t,” I insisted.  I remembered myself a second later.  “Sir.”

The grandmaster studied me for a long cold minute.  “I was not best pleased when you put forward your proposal for a school newsletter.  It was a good idea, in theory, but your father’s reputation precedes you.  I did not expect you’d be able to content yourself with matters of interest to the school …”

“This is a matter of interest,” I insisted.

“… And now you have been caught spying on older students,” the grandmaster continued, as if I hadn’t spoken at all.  “That is not acceptable conduct.”

Spying on them was perfectly acceptable, I thought, darkly.  It was spying on them and getting caught you found so offensive.

“I am not pleased, young lady,” the grandmaster told me.  “You have betrayed the trust vested in you.  Frankly, your newsletter should be shut down.  I understand your arguments – and those of your supporters – but you have undermined the school.  The championship is coming up and we do not have time to deal with the problems you have raised.”

I felt my heart clench.  “You mean, the unfairness of the process?”

“Life is not fair,” the grandmaster snapped.  “And it is vitally important the championships go off without a hitch.”

Because the old grandmaster had little interest in sporting events and kept us largely out of them, I thought, nastily.  And you want to change things.

The grandmaster kept talking, unaware of my inner thoughts.  “After this meeting, you will report to the Warden and then you will wait in your bedroom.  I will not shut down your newsletter – not yet – but I will appoint an editor who will ride herd on you and tape down any wild ideas before they lead the newsletter to ruin.  That person will have authority over the newsletter, with the final say on what does and does not get published.  If you defy them, they will have the power to sack you.”

I blanched.  “It’s my newsletter!”

“No,” the grandmaster said.  “It’s the school’s newsletter.  You may have made the proposal and done the legwork, but the school funded the printing press and provided the office and how much else?  We own it.  If you want to abandon your project, you may.  If not, you need someone riding herd on you to make sure you don’t do something stupid.  Again.”

I ground my teeth.  “Sir …”

The grandmaster cut me off.  “It isn’t up for debate,” he said.  “If you want the newsletter to continue, with your involvement, you can do it with supervision.  If not … you may go.”

“Yes, sir,” I grated.  There was no point in arguing further.  Some people would dig their heels in and refuse to concede an inch, or worse, if you kept up the pressure.  I had a nasty feeling Grandmaster Gordian was one of them.  Lady Emily might have been able to talk sense into him.  I couldn’t.  “I look forward to meeting my new boss.”

“Glad to hear it,” the grandmaster said.  He didn’t react to my sardonic tone.  “Now, go.”

Snippet – The Conjuring Man Prologues

These are drafts, so please feel free to comment.

Prologue I

Background: The following is a transcript of a speech given by Adam of Heart’s Eye, one year after his discovery of the principles of magitech made him the poster child for magical/mundane cooperation.  The speech was widely distributed and just as widely banned, but this did not stop it from providing impetus to a growing movement to push the limits of magitech as far as they would go.

***

I grew up in a city-state.

Many people say that social mobility is easy within a city-state.  There is some truth to that – and compared to the countryside it is very easy to rise in the city – but it can be difficult to rise above your station.  Much of your life is determined by an accident of birth.  If your family is rich, you will have all the education and opportunities you could desire; if your family is poor, and struggling to keep from drowning in a tidal wave of debt, you will not have the time to study and better yourself.  Lady Emily says that one must spend money in order to make money, which can be tricky if you don’t have the money to spend.

I didn’t.

I wanted to be a magician.  It was unfortunate that I lacked the magic to seek a magical education, or the money that might have transformed me into a theoretical magician capable of devising spells, but never casting them.  I was lucky enough to win an apprenticeship with a master open-minded enough to give me a chance, yet it seemed impossible I would ever make something of myself.  It was not until I was … encouraged to travel to Heart’s Eye and study magic there that I found the key to a whole new branch of magic, a magic anyone – from the strongest magician to the weakest commoner – could use.  I could not have had that insight anywhere else.

But it was not just me.  Master Landis took me in and encouraged me to experiment.  Lilith and Taffy helped me to experiment.  Craftswoman Yvonne and Enchanter Praxis assisted in building the tools we needed, often devising newer and better ways to produce them in the process.  I have been credited with founding the field of magitech, but the truth is that it was a joint effort.  Everyone I named and more beside played a role in turning magitech into a workable branch of magic, one that has grown beyond my wildest dreams and continues to grow.  And it could not have happened anywhere else.

Lady Emily intended to turn Heart’s Eye into a crucible of innovation.  She laid the groundwork, from freedom of speech and assembly to the gathering of knowledge, insight and resources that powered the development of magitech.  She created a university where mistakes were allowed to pass, as long as you learnt from them, and even outright failures offered data that could be very useful indeed.  She told us that we always learn from our work, that we must be sensible and mature and tolerant of those who disagree with us, as long as they are tolerant of us.  She told us that all ideas would be tested, that the golden ideas would shine in the sun and the dross clearly visible for all to see.  And she was right.

Freedom, Lady Emily said, is a constant struggle.  And, again, she was right.

Our university is under threat, by those who consider us a threat.  We represent a new way forward, a way for everyone to climb as high as they can … a threat, to those who fear they will be surpassed by the new.  Their people will look at us, at the glittering civilisation we will build, and ask their rulers why they can’t do the same.  And they can’t, because to defeat us they will have to become us and we will win.

To them, we represent a threat far more insidious than anything they have ever faced.  We are not invaders, bent on conquest.  We are not usurpers, putting our claims to the test of battle.  We are not barbarian hordes or dark wizards or even necromancers.  We are an idea, the idea of freedom and self-determination and the right of a man or woman to work his way to the top, or to have a say in the government of their countries.  We are their worst nightmare given shape and form.  We are a free-thinking people.  They don’t want anyone, from the lowest serf grubbing in the dirt to the armsmen and soldiers who maintain their world, asking why?  Why should they be in charge?

And really, why?

To them, we are an existential threat.  Invading armies can be beaten.  Usurpers can be crushed.  Or, if they win, they’re the rightful rulers all along.  Us?  We are a challenge to their order, a rebuke of their conduct that grows stronger with every passing year.  They must crush us, strangling us in our cradle, before our mere existence crushes them.  They have already waged war on us, sending sorcerers and armies against us.  And they will keep going, because they must.  The alternative is their own people rising up against them.

What is a king, without his regal grandeur?  Just a man.

They don’t want us working together.  They don’t want fisherfolk working with merchants.  They don’t want soldiers working with civilians.  They don’t want magicians working with mundanes.  They don’t want us to work together for fear we will unite against them.  They work so hard to keep us apart, to formant hatred between magicians and mundanes, civilians and soldiers, cityfolk and countryfolk, because they fear what we would do if we united.  And they are right to fear. 

Look at what we have done, here at Heart’s Eye.  Look what we will do, if we have time.

We defeated a sorcerer.  We defeated a king.  I charge you all – wherever you came from, wherever you are going – to remember how we defeated an undefeatable king.  I charge you all to remember what we did, and carry it with you when you leave this place.  I charge you all to spread the story far and wide, to tell the world that freedom is within our reach and that we can take it.

We won, through working together.  And I promise you this.

We will win again.

Prologue II

“You lost.”

Master Lance, who had called himself Arnold only a few short weeks ago, didn’t look into the shadows, didn’t meet the gaze of the sending lurking there.  The chamber was as heavily-warded as a powerful sorcerer could make it, but he wasn’t particularly surprised his masters had reached through his defences as if they were as gossamer-thin as a child’s play-wards.  He was bound to them, by oaths of blood and bone, and he could no more escape them than he could cut his own throat.  It wouldn’t save him, if he did.  He’d been told that even the dead served their former masters after they passed beyond.

“A minor setback,” he said, calmly.  “The overall plan proceeds.”

“The king’s armies have been destroyed,” his master said.  “And his sister has declared herself queen.”

“One army,” Lance corrected.  He cared nothing for the men, commoners or aristos, who’d died in the fire.  “King Ephialtes has others.”

“His kingdom is in turmoil,” his master said.  “And all because of a weak little mundane.”

Lance winced at the sarcasm poisoning his master’s tone.  It was deserved.  The average sorcerer wouldn’t have paid any attention to a threat from a mundane, but Lance?  He’d been there, when Adam had taken the first fumbling steps towards magitech.  He should have taken steps to ensure Adam could never become a threat, from planting commands in his mind to stealing a sample of blood for a long-distance curse.  And he hadn’t.  And Adam had beaten him, not once but twice.  Lance had to admit he’d made a terrible mistake.  It would have been so easy to break Adam, the second time, or even simply put a fireball through his head.

“The Allied Lands themselves are in turmoil,” his master said.  “Void has made his bid for supreme power.  His daughter moves against him.  We will never have a better opportunity to secure a foothold, and a nexus point, for ourselves.  Nor will we be able to recover Heart’s Eye.”

“There are other nexus points,” Lance pointed out.  “And …”

His master cut him off.  “There are other nexus points, true, but none of such great importance to us,” he hissed.  “It is vitally important the nexus point be secured.  The university comes second.”

“Of course, Master,” Lance said, controlling his temper.  He’d have the university and the nexus point and then they would see.  If only his old masters hadn’t called him back to their banner … he snorted in disgust, remembering how Adam had wanted to be a magician so badly.  Would he have been quite so enthusiastic, if he’d known the price?  “I will not fail you.”

“No,” his master agreed.  There was no attempt to hide the threat in his voice.  “You will not,”

The shadows darkened, then snapped out of existence.  Lance staggered as the presence vanished with them.  His master was strong, too strong.  And yet … his master knew Lance was plotting against him, but did he realise how far Lance intended to go?  Of course he did … it was, after all, the only way to rise.  Lance hadn’t wanted to come back, but his master hadn’t given him the choice.  He was lucky he’d had enough freedom to lay his plans in a manner that allowed him to blame the failure on the king.

He straightened, brushing down his robes as someone knocked on the door.  Lance waved a hand impatiently, commanding the door to open.  The serving maid on the other side looked as if he’d frightened her out of her wits.  Or someone else had … Lance felt his lips thin in disgust.  He’d done a great many horrible things in his time – his style of magic demanded it –but there were limits.  He didn’t do horrible things for the sake of doing them.  King Ephialtes’s new followers, loyalists and mercenaries alike, didn’t seem to have any limits.

“Master,” the girl said, prostrating herself. Her voice shook.  “His Majesty summons … ah, requests your presence.”

Lance felt a wave of disgust at such weakness, mixed with a droll awareness the girl had no better prospects.  She was small and weak and would never rise any higher … he wondered, as he dismissed her with a wave of his hand, if she would have done better at Heart’s Eye.  Probably, if she could have gotten there.  Lance wasn’t going to help.  She had nothing to offer him, in exchange.

He checked his wards, then strode through the corridor to the king’s private chambers.  The king hadn’t spent any time in his throne room, or even addressing his court, since his armies had been scattered and broken.  Lance knew, despite the king’s best efforts to hide it, that Ephialtes had been having private meetings with his officers, as well as hiring mercenaries and other magicians.  The man wasn’t broken, not yet, but … Lance shrugged.  Ephialtes would hate it, if he knew, yet the truth was the king meant no more to Lance than the poor little girl.  He was a tool, nothing more.  It was of no great concern if the king got what he wanted out of the bargain or not,

The maid would probably be more useful, he reflected, wryly.  Certainly in the long run.

“Sir Sorcerer.”  King Ephialtes looked tired, tired and stressed.  A goblet of dark red wine sat on his desk, untouched.  His eyes flickered from side to side, even though he’d put a dozen sorcerers to work warding his chamber to the point that even Lance would have trouble taking the wards down without raising the alarm.  “Are you ready to take control of the university for me?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lance said.  He would take control.  He just wouldn’t hand it over to the king.  “Are your forces ready to move?”

“There are rebels and traitors within my city, within my kingdom,” Ephialtes said.  It was practically a hiss.  “You will assist me in rounding them up.  And quickly!”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Lance said, smoothly.  There was nothing to be gained – yet – by showing the king precisely how small and helpless he was.  Besides, he was right.  The king now had a challenger, a rival monarch, in the form of his own sister.  Factions that might otherwise submit to the king were weighing up the odds, trying to ensure they came out on the winning side.  King Ephialtes needed to strike first.  “I am at your command.”

He bowed, deeply.  And smiled.