The Royal Sorceress

by Christopher Nuttall

  “There was a Mover involved as well,” Gwen said, carefully. She looked over at him, suddenly. “How many criminals were involved?”

  “Good question,” Master Thomas said. “The message from Lestrade said that the staff claimed that only one magician was involved. They might have been wrong.”

  He stood up and headed over towards the stairs. “Or they might have been lying,” he added, absently. “They failed their master – or they might have been bribed into betraying their master. Lord Burley was not popular in town.”

  Gwen followed him, her mind spinning. She had always been taught that servants were reliable, even the ones who were afraid of her and her powers. Even though servants were trusted family retainers, her mother wouldn’t have hesitated to fire a servant who displeased her. There were entire families of servants who had served a particular aristocratic family throughout the years. If Lord Burley had been so unpopular…would his own servants have turned on him? But if they had, why had some of them been killed by magic in the struggle?

  “Master,” she said, slowly, “was Lord Burley a magician?”

  “Not as far as I know,” Master Thomas said. “All magicians are supposed to be registered with the Crown, but an aristocrat might keep his powers to himself, just in hopes of using them for unfair advantage. Still” – he shrugged – “Lord Burley’s career was that of a very honourable soldier. He would surely have used any powers he had in the service of the Crown.”

  Gwen stopped dead as they reached the landing. A stuffed tiger was glaring back at her, its face twisted in savage excitement. Lord Burley, she realised, had been a keen hunter, taking advantage of his years in India to bag hundreds of tigers. He’d probably been a terror while fox-hunting or grouse shooting back home in England. She’d known young scions of the aristocracy who spent their entire lives shooting harmless birds and deer. It had never seemed a good pastime for her, but while she had been allowed to ride, she had never been allowed to hunt. Perhaps she would have felt differently if she’d been born a man.

  “The fellow was an excellent shot,” Master Thomas observed, studying the tiger. There was no sign of where the bullet had entered its body. “I couldn’t have done it better with magic.”

  He led the way into the master bedroom and frowned. Gwen followed him in and saw Lord Burley – an older and fatter man than she remembered – lying on the ground. A length of rope was tied around his neck, clearly having been used to strangle him to death. She glanced up at the wall and blinked in surprise. The words CAPTAIN SWING had been painted on the walls in red paint. No, not paint, she realised in shock. The murderer had signed his crime in his victim’s blood. This time, she couldn’t swallow fast enough to stop bile rising into her mouth and she retched loudly. A metal bucket floated across the room and hovered just in front of her, ready to catch it if she threw up. Somehow, she managed to keep it down.

  “Interesting,” Master Thomas observed. “What would you say was the cause of death?”

  Gwen stared at him. “He was hanged,” she said, flatly. He’d clearly died when the rope had been pulled tight around his neck. “His murderer hung him from the ceiling…”

  “Look up,” Master Thomas suggested. “There’s no hook, no rafters…nothing that could be used to hang a man. And yet he was very definitely hanged. What does that suggest to you?”

  Gwen stared down at the body, wincing. “Magic,” she said. Once she’d made the connection, it was obvious. “They held his body in the air using magic and then let go, holding onto the rope. A Mover was involved.”

  “Yes,” Master Thomas agreed. He prodded the body thoughtfully, but if he pulled any flashes of insight off the body he kept them to himself. “And a Blazer, who killed one of the guarding magicians – and they said that there was only one magician.”

  He led Gwen back outside and looked up at the skylight. “He got in through the skylight,” he said. Gwen frowned, and then understood. A Mover could have opened the skylight from the outside and then jumped down into the building, relying on his magic to land safely. But if there had been only one magician…?

  “Captain Swing,” she repeated. “Who is Captain Swing?”

  Master Thomas didn’t answer. He walked back inside the master bedroom and studied the wall thoughtfully. Gwen didn’t understand – and then it all made horrifying sense. One magician had been involved, one magician with multiple powers. And that meant a Master.

  “It’s a message,” Master Thomas said, finally. “A message aimed at one specific person.”

  Gwen looked over at him. He sounded grim – and worried. “Aimed at whom?”

  “Aimed at me,” Master Thomas said. He stepped closer, studying the word CAPTAIN. “This wasn’t a random murder, young lady. This was an act of war – a declaration of war – aimed at me. Lord Burley was a known supporter of the Whigs; he was one of their biggest backers. And he controlled several votes in the House. His murder is going to upset several different political factions.”

  He turned and marched out of the room, not looking back. “There are only a handful of people in the world who could have slipped into this house and murdered its owner,” he said. “And one of them was someone we thought long dead.”

  Gwen blinked. “Who was it?” She asked. “Shouldn’t we be chasing him?”

  “Not at the moment,” Master Thomas said. “You’re going to have to learn faster, I’m afraid. Try not to slap any more tutors. They make a frightful fuss.”

  His tone was light, but Gwen could sense the worry under it. Master Thomas was the most accomplished magician in the world. He shared all of the powers and knew how to use them in combination, making him far more dangerous than any other magician. And yet, whoever had killed Lord Burley worried him. If there had been only one intruder, he had to have been a Master – a Master who knew how to use his powers in combination.

  Master Thomas led the way down the stairs and out into the garden. For the next thirty minutes, he interrogated each of the servants and surviving guards one by one. One of them, a girl shivering under a blanket, was apparently under arrest for loose morals. Master Thomas rebuked the policeman who’d arrested her, arranged for her to be taken to a place where she could live and perhaps find a honest vocation, and then interrogated her carefully. She’d been in the room when the murderer had arrived, but she’d seen almost nothing. The murderer’s face had been cloaked in illusion. He would have been almost impossible to see in the dark.

  Gwen lost interest rapidly and found herself studying the policemen instead. They were glancing at her when they thought she wasn’t looking: glances that suggested that she made them nervous in some way. Scotland Yard didn’t employ women in any position; even their servants were all male. Perhaps they were unused to the idea of a woman being in a position of power, not when there hadn’t been a female Queen for decades. It had been centuries since Elizabeth had proved herself the equal of any man.

  She frowned as she saw a strange man talking to Inspector Lestrade. He was tall and thin, wearing a deerstalker hat and a cloak that seemed to cover most of his body. Beside him, a shorter man with a moustache and a doctor’s bag was watching impatiently, clearly looking forward to examining the body. Lestrade’s voice grew louder as they argued, but Gwen couldn’t make it out clearly. He didn’t sound happy.

  “None of them saw his face,” Master Thomas said, grimly. He nodded to the Inspector’s two friends, who nodded back. “I don’t think we’ll find anything here that can be used to trace him back to his lair. You may as well have the body removed and handed over to the clergy for cremation.”

  “Of course, sir,” Inspector Lestrade said. No one was buried these days, not when a necromancer could give new life to the dead. Bodies were incinerated by law and anyone who failed to notify the authorities would face a stiff fine and six months in jail. “I’ll let the relatives know.”

  “I’m sure they know already,” Master Thomas said. “It will be all over London by now.”r />
  He said nothing until they were back in the carriage, heading back to Cavendish Hall. “I must speak with Lord Mycroft at once,” he said. “His brother is a private agent who sometimes takes on commissions for the government. Perhaps he can be of some service.”

  Gwen looked up at him. “Master,” she said, slowly, “who is he?”

  “That isn’t important at the moment,” Master Thomas said. “The Fairweathers are planning to host a ball in a week. I trust that you will be attending?”

  Gwen was used to sudden changes in subject, but it still caught her by surprise. Master Thomas had never shown any interest in balls before, or the parties that socialites like her mother hosted on a regular basis. Or maybe she’d just missed the signs. It had only been a week since her life had turned upside down.

  “I don’t think that anyone will take me,” Gwen admitted. The thought hurt more than she was prepared to admit. It wasn’t the done thing for a woman to go to a ball without a male companion. Most of the young girls she knew either moved from man to man, or formed a relationship with a single man that would inevitably lead to marriage. By then, the parents would have been consulted, negotiations would have taken place and the happy couple would have discovered that they no longer controlled their own lives. “And I wasn’t planning to go.”

  “They’re powerful patrons of Cavendish Hall,” Master Thomas said, dryly. “It would be unwise to offend them. Do you wish anyone to invite you to the ball?”

  Gwen flushed. The thought of Master Thomas ordering one of the other students to escort her was embarrassing. And yet…she doubted that any of them would work up the nerve to ask her to accompany them to the ball. They’d be reluctant to risk any shadow over their own reputation, even though they’d probably been visiting brothels or seducing the maids since they’d grown old enough to know that the stork didn’t bring babies to their parents at night.

  “No, thank you,” she said, firmly. She would prefer to go on her own rather than have an unwilling companion. But then, maybe they wouldn’t be all that unwilling. The Fairweather family wasn’t just interested in magic. They were major backers of the East India Company and had interests and investments all over the globe. Their parties were the major event of the year. Her mother might not be able to secure an invitation.

  “You will be coming,” Master Thomas said, firmly. “I suggest that you ask one of your fellow students, or a young man of your acquaintance. There will be a chance to meet many of the most powerful men and women in London at the ball. When you become the Royal Sorcerer, you will need contacts and allies in high places if you are to do your job properly.”

  Gwen nodded, reluctantly. How did he manage to keep making her feel like a child?

  “When we return home, I suggest that you apologise to Lord Blackburn,” Master Thomas added. “You cannot afford a political enemy in such a high place. Your position is going to be unstable anyway – you don’t need darker problems.”

  “No,” Gwen said, flatly. “You didn’t see how he was treating that girl. He deserves far worse than a slap.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Master Thomas said, “but if you don’t learn anything else from me, learn this. Those with power have to be humoured or they will work against you. And then, if you’re lucky, you won’t be able to get anything done.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Government had banned the Working Men’s clubs after the long period of social unrest in Britain that had followed the aborted revolutions in America, France and even Russia. People being people, their decree had done nothing more than drive the clubs underground, where working men of the lower classes could drown their sorrows in drink before staggering home to their wives. Jack knew that it was a more subtle means of social control than using Dragoons to clear the streets. The working men spent their day working and drinking and rarely had time to consider the true nature of their place in society. Besides, when the local temperance legion had managed to ban alcohol, there had been riots in the streets. That law had been hastily rescinded.

  He smiled to himself as he slipped through the door and into the club. It was a massive room, lit by dim oil lanterns that shrouded the whole chamber in an atmosphere of gloom. A fire burned brightly in one corner, providing heat and flickering illumination for the crowd of heavy drinkers. It was, by common consent, an English-only club. The Irishmen, Welshmen and Scotsmen had their own clubs, where they drank their sorrows away. And, on weekends, the drinkers would often end up brawling with other drinkers, their hatreds blinding them to the fact that they shared a common cause. Jack slapped a copper crown onto the table, accepted a tankard of beer and tasted it carefully. It was weaker than he remembered, but then there was nothing stopping the barman from watering his booze. No one in their right mind would try any of the bar snacks.

  The racket grew louder as more and more men crammed into the club. Jack watched as the barmaid, almost certainly the owner’s daughter, moved from table to table, replenishing glasses and taking coins from the bar’s patrons. The bartender was one of the few totally honest men – if one didn’t count the watered-down beer – in the Rookery. Everyone liked and trusted him, which made his participation in the movement essential. Jack took another swig of his beer, winced at the taste, and then stood up. Night was falling, the serious drinking was just beginning and before too long, the camaraderie at the bar would be replaced by violence and drunken fighting. No one would break it up if two drunkards started fighting each other. They’d be more likely to start betting on the outcome.

  Jack scowled inwardly as he pushed his way through the crowd of sweaty men, drinking as quickly as they could. He had no illusions about their nature, not like the upper-class women who formed the temperance legions. The poor were shaped by their environment, lying, cheating and stealing to survive, knowing that their lives might be ended at any moment. Life was cheap in the Rookery. Jack was mildly surprised that the recruiting sergeants didn’t have more recruits for the army. But then, the army was used to repress urban rioting. The weak-chinned aristocrats who commanded the army wouldn’t want soldiers who refused to charge their fellows.

  He opened an unmarked door and slipped into the rear room. A smaller number of men were gathered around a fence, watching with interest as two wild dogs fought each other for their amusement. One of the dogs had lost a leg, but it managed to stay on its feet and savage the other with sharp teeth. The sound of bets being exchanged could be heard over their growls; by the time the night was done, a few people would be richer at the expense of their fellows. The game wasn’t precisely rigged, but a smart planner could ensure that the odds were tipped in his favour. A cheer went up when the smaller dog managed to sink its teeth into the larger dog’s throat and ripped, hard. Blood went everywhere as the larger dog sank to the ground and died. A number of gamblers were sulking. They’d bet heavily on the loser.

  Jack shook his head and walked through the third door. Inside, a man carrying a club inspected him before waving him through. Davy had taken care of security, with trusted men posted at all points. If the Bow Street Runners had a spy inside the movement, they might know about the meeting, but they’d never get to the club before the occupants already been warned. Besides, after the death of Lord Burley, the Runners were more likely to be running around looking for his murderer than watching the underground. But then, Master Thomas would have seen his message. He could hardly have failed to understand what it meant.

  Inside the inner room, nine men waited for him. Jack exchanged handshakes with the ones he didn’t know, hoping – praying – that Davy was still a good judge of character. The last time he’d been in London, he’d trusted the wrong person and ended up having to run for his life. And if he hadn’t had something to bargain with, the French might well have killed him rather than trying to turn him into a tool. Four other men, all from the underground, came in several minutes later. Davy himself, who was a silent partner in the club, brought up the rear.

  His ga
ze passed over Jack in silent consideration. Davy was a short man with a cloth over one eye. Years ago, a werewolf in government service had taken his right eye during a brutal struggle and had almost ended his life. Davy had been bitter and resentful long before losing his eye, but he’d grown darker and more determined to succeed, whatever the cost. Jack knew that Davy didn’t trust him, but they didn’t have time for a conflict within the movement.

  “Well,” Davy said, finally. “We’re here. Shall we begin?”

  Jack stood up and walked to the front of the room. It was easy to use a little magic to illuminate his form, even though he knew better than to try; at least two of the underground’s leaders had magic of their own and they wouldn’t be impressed by his tricks – as well as sensing it if he tried to Charm them. . It wasn’t worth the risk. He studied them, as dispassionately as he could. Two of them were union organisers – unions were banned, by law – and three more were former professors turned revolutionaries. One was an exile from the Tsar’s Russia, another was a miner who’d lost his job when the mining company had brought in Irish labour and undercut English wages. Years ago, there had been a proper underground movement, but that underground had been shattered. A repeat of that disaster would prove fatal to the movement.

  “You all know why we’re here,” he said, without preamble. He spoke quietly, but with passion – and with enough force to make sure they all heard the conviction in his voice. Charm wasn’t necessary to convince people. “We have struggled for reform the legal way – and we have gotten nothing for our pains. The toffees like us in the dirt, grubbing around their feet for the scraps they throw to us, uncaring about our suffering. We lose children because we have to live in the slums. We lose money through taxes and the high cost of food. We lose our sons to workhouses and our daughters to brothels. We are hectored by churchmen and bossed around by lords and ladies who think that their birth makes them better than us.