“It does sound like something the French would do,” the King agreed, quietly. “They sent a monkey to spy on Hartlepool after all. I’m sure that a necromancer would be well within their powers. They’ll deny everything, of course.”
They would, Gwen knew, and they wouldn’t be believed. Fear of France was one of the few things that united all Englishmen behind their government. It would provide a face-saving excuse for the government to make concessions and the rebels to accept them, ending the uprising without further bloodshed. Gwen had quietly promised herself that she would ensure that all of the promises were upheld. She was indispensable as long as there were no other Masters, giving her tremendous influence. And Master Thomas, for reasons known only to him, had left her most of his possessions in his will. She was also suddenly one of the richest people, male or female, in the British Empire.
Lord Liverpool looked at Gwen for a long moment, as if he couldn’t believe how much she’d changed. Neither could Gwen, to be honest. “These…concessions you wish us to make,” he said, finally, “will upset many people. I would go so far as to say that they will upset everyone.”
“Good,” the King said. “It will please no one, but they can accept it. And I will spend the rest of my reign ensuring that they are honoured.”
There was a pause. Some of the concessions weren’t too onerous. Universal suffrage; men and women of all social classes would get the vote, by secret ballot. A minimum wage for workers and manager liability for any accidents within their factories that could have been avoided; strict laws on the use of child labour; universal education, better medical care…the British Empire could survive making such changes. Besides, in the long run, Lord Mycroft had already determined that they would benefit the British Empire. Few doubted his word.
But others would be a struggle. The rebels wanted a universal right to bear arms, pointing out that successive governments had disarmed the population and then forced them to accept wildly unpopular policies. There would be no regular army units within the cities; instead, the Trained Bands would be resurrected and actually trained. The police would operate under strict laws that would prevent them from abusing their position, or accepting bribes. And there would be government-funded emigration, allowing anyone who wanted to settle elsewhere to migrate without indebting his entire family for life. Lord Liverpool would burn up the rest of his political capital forcing Parliament to accept them, something that would render him ineffective if he did somehow manage to remain in politics.
Gwen told herself that Jack would have understood, but in truth she wasn’t too sure. Officially, Jack and Master Thomas had died heroically, fighting the revenants. Far too many people had watched the fight for the truth to be completely buried, but few people would want to believe the truth. It was far better for the country to believe that the ultimate defender of the old order and the man who had brought hope to the poor had died together, united in a common cause. Or so she’d been told, by none other than Lord Mycroft. She could only hope that he was right.
The King rose to his feet and smiled down at his servants. “I shall be returning to Windsor Castle this evening,” he said. Windsor Castle was currently being defended by a unit of rebel troops, taking the place of the King’s normal bodyguards. The Prime Minister wouldn’t be blind to the significance of the King’s unspoken statement – or, for that matter, the difficulties of disarming the rebels after London was back in government hands. “I will expect to see a signed treaty by then so I may take it to London myself.”
He left the chamber, not looking back.
Lord Mycroft chuckled, harshly. “I wonder what we have unleashed on the world, Madam Sorceress,” he said. It was the official title for Royal Sorcerer, adapted for a Sorceress. Gwen still found it strange to be addressed in such a manner. “You have shaken the entire country. What will you do next?”
“Go to Cavendish Hall,” Gwen said. “I have work to do there.”
***
Most of Cavendish Hall was still intact, despite the rebel bombardment and the fire that had scorched part of the interior. Gwen had managed to assert her authority to convince many of the staff to return, along with hiring a number of builders to start repairs. No one had quibbled too loudly. The death of Master Thomas and the rise of an undead army had shocked them and most of the magicians had accepted Gwen’s authority without demur. A handful hadn’t and had complained to Lord Mycroft, only to be told that they could either accept Gwen or hand in their resignations. Most of them had chosen to stay, although she suspected that some of them were just waiting for her to make a mistake. Or, perhaps, for another Master to appear.
Master Thomas’s rooms should have been hers, but she had been unable to bear the thought of moving into them. The staff sealed them up, after Gwen had carefully removed every book and paper and transferred them to her own rooms. She would have to go through them all carefully, paper by paper, looking for whatever secrets Master Thomas might have taken to the grave. And if she failed to find his notes, she would have to discover the techniques herself. She stared down at a logbook that dated all the way back to the foundation of the Royal College and shook her head. It had to be read, but not today. And maybe not by her.
A knock on the door brought her back to herself. She wiped her eyes and used magic to unlock the door, allowing Doctor Norwell to enter. The theoretical magician, barred by long custom from claiming any real authority within Cavendish Hall, looked concerned. Gwen was unlikely to forget his role in planning and supervising the farms – and, as a mundane human, he was expendable. Lord Mycroft wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow if Gwen told him to leave the Hall and never return.
“I have the logbooks you requested,” Doctor Norwell said, after taking the seat Gwen had indicated was for him. She’d have to set up a proper office, she told herself firmly, although that was hardly a priority right now. There were hundreds of matters that had to be attended to before she could deal with her own comfort. “Everything from the first year to...the end of the program.”
Gwen nodded, slowly. “Good,” she said. “And the farms themselves?”
Doctor Norwell looked pained. “My Lady, with all due respect...”
“The farms were a crime against humanity,” Gwen said, flatly. She would never forget the image of Lord Blackburn having sexual congress with a woman who hadn’t wanted to be there. “I want the entire program shut down. The children are to be allowed to grow up on their own, without pressure.”
“Yes, My Lady,” Doctor Norwell said, tightly. “I will see to it personally.”
Gwen had no intention of budging on that particular matter. Besides, the papers she’d seen had confirmed that around half of the children were born without any magic at all. They tended to be removed from the program by the time they reached their late teens. At least they’d been given a small lump sum from the government. She shuddered to think what would have happened if they’d just been turned onto the streets.
“And after that, I want the records sealed,” Gwen added. He shrank under her gaze. “No one is to even know that the program existed.”
She watched Doctor Norwell leave the room and shook her head as soon as he had closed the door behind him. It wasn’t something she wanted to think about, but someone would have to make sure that the theoretical magicians never tried to reopen the program. Perhaps there was a compromise, perhaps paying mothers to have children with the right fathers...she shook her head again. The entire concept was sickening.
Twenty minutes later, there was a second knock on the door. This time, it opened to reveal Lombardi and a rather nervous Lucy. Gwen had assigned Lombardi to look after Lucy, counting on his shy manner to reassure the Healer. Lucy would have felt out of place in Cavendish Hall, even without having to face the attentions of a great many theoretical magicians who wanted to study a Healer. Lombardi had strict orders to ensure that they didn’t overwhelm her while they tried to work out how to look for other Healers. Besides, Lucy’s existen
ce had given Gwen another tool for convincing the government to make peace with the rebels. A Healing talent would work to the government’s advantage.
“This place is a nightmare,” Lucy said, as Lombardi closed the door. “I don’t know how you coped with them poking and prodding you while they tried to find out how you made magic work.”
“I wasn’t unique,” Gwen pointed out. There had been four other Masters; it struck her, suddenly, that she was unique. The farm program had only produced one Master in its entire existence. Doctor Norwell insisted that more research would allow them to grow Masters without having to rely on random (and unknown) factors. Gwen had shut the program down instead. “I’m sorry about it, you know.”
“I understand,” Lucy said, without bitterness. She sat down and dismissed Lombardi with a toss of her head. “I want to talk about another friend of ours.”
Gwen nodded. “She should be safe,” she said. The King had signed a pardon for Olivia the day after she’d stopped the undead army in its tracks. Lord Blackburn – if he’d still been in Britain – would probably have quibbled over its legality. Someone smarter, with an eye to the long-term issues, would know better. Raising the question of the King’s right to grant a pardon would eventually call into question the legitimacy of the government itself. Besides, having at least one tame necromancer in the Sorcerers Corps might come in handy. The French or the Russians might eventually develop a necromancer of their own.
“Good,” Lucy said. “And I want to make a point clear of my own. I intend to use my powers to help people who need it, rich and poor alike. I’m going to donate at least half of my time to healing the poor. I want you to make certain that any other Healers we discover do the same. You have that power now, according to Bruno. Will you do it?”
Master Thomas would probably have hesitated, Gwen knew, or tried to strike a bargain. Doctor Norwell would certainly have asked Lucy to have children in the hopes of producing more Healers. But Gwen didn’t hesitate. It was the right thing to do – and it might teach the magicians that the poor were still human.
“I will see to it,” Gwen promised. The clock on her desk chimed and she scowled at it. She didn’t want to go to her next appointment, but it had to be done. “Take care of yourself, all right? We need you.”
***
By law, any family proceedings involving the nobility had to be conducted with the presence of a registry officer. Births, deaths, weddings...they all had to be recorded, scribbled down in the blue ink that denoted nobility. Gwen had seen it all as a waste of time before she’d become a magician; now, with the gaze of hindsight, she realised that it allowed the government a chance to track bloodlines that had produced magical children. And, just to give the program some cover, to ensure that lines of succession and inheritance were firmly delineated before the wrong person died. It was always useful to know who was going to inherit.
She stepped down from the carriage – no magic here, not in front of her parents – and helped Olivia down after her. Lady Mary frowned as soon as she saw the child, although she had the sense to keep her comments to herself. Adoption was rare among the nobility, where the family bloodlines had to be kept in the open, but it did happen. It had even been known to happen retroactively. But for someone of Gwen’s age to adopt a child...
Gwen’s lips twitched, imagining what High Society’s grand dames would have to say when they heard the news. No one in living memory had ever adopted a child from the streets, certainly not a girl who had spent most of her life dressed as a boy, pick-pocketing just to remain alive. But Gwen was the Royal Sorceress, a position that came with a title, and the heir of Master Thomas, who had had a title and fortune of his own. They would never be able to shun Gwen’s adopted daughter, at least not publicly. What they said in private would never have to come to Olivia’s ears.
But she hadn’t adopted Olivia just to upset High Society. The public had been told that a French-born male necromancer had raised the dead in London, intent on destroying the trust that made Britain function. Enough people, however, knew the truth to make Olivia’s position a little unsure. Some of them might decide that the risks of having a living necromancer outweighed the benefits. But they would never be able to execute Gwen’s adopted daughter without bringing down the wrath of High Society on their heads. No one would stand for such an act. It was the best protection Gwen could give the young necromancer, and what – she was sure – Jack would have wanted.
“Olivia,” she said, quietly. The girl looked up at her, shyly. “This is your grandmother and grandfather. And” –she nodded towards a carriage, where David was helping Laura to clamber out – “that is your uncle and aunt. Welcome to the family.”
After the ceremony, Lady Mary managed to draw her aside, just for a moment.
“Gwen,” she said, sharply. “What were you thinking? What about the family name?”
Gwen smiled. “What about it?” She asked. “You don’t think that my daughter is worthy to bear our name?”
Lady Mary snorted and stalked off, doubtless to inflict her presence on some unsuspecting footman or housemaid. Gwen watched her go, shaking her head sadly. Lady Mary would hate having a grandchild from such a disreputable background, yet she would never be able to say anything, not in public. And she would have to suffer the snide comments and glances from her fellow society butterflies. Her entire life was based on her position in society, and Gwen had weakened it...
And yet, she was the mother of the Royal Sorceress. No one would be able to shun her, or to refuse to invite her to parties. They would all have to be polite to her – Gwen too, if she saw fit to accept their invitations...
She smiled and winked at David. Her brother had understood, of course. His sister could lead her own life now, without having to worry about her mother’s wants and desires. And she could be happy.
The future seemed bright and full of promise.
Epilogue
The streets of Cairo were stained with blood.
Five days ago, the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire had crossed into Egypt, intending to make the first state visit of an Ottoman Sultan to his vassal state in centuries. The Mamelukes, the hierarchy of military families that effectively ruled Egypt, had set out to challenge the Sultan as his army headed towards Cairo. They had no fear of Ottoman Power, not after they had contemptuously repulsed every half-hearted Janissary advance directed from Istanbul. The Sultan would be repulsed, perhaps even taken prisoner. And then who knew where their ambitions would lead them?
They had led them to death. Four days ago, the two armies had met – and the Mamelukes had been smashed. Barely one in a thousand survived, and only then because the Sultan wanted them to escape to spread the word. The green-coated army that he had created was invincible and the Mamelukes, who hadn’t changed their tactics or organisation in decades, were powerless to stop the Sultan from entering his city. A handful of powerful families fled in the night, others found themselves evicted from their palaces when the Sultan’s men claimed them to billet their troops. No one argued twice. The grim-faced men holding rifles and long sharp swords were a silent promise of the Sultan’s willingness to enforce his laws by force.
Three days ago, the Sultan had proclaimed his new order. The laws that had reformed the Ottoman Empire would be propagated in Egypt. Those who heard the pronouncements were shocked. The old ruling class was effectively disbanded and slavery was abolished, while the taxes that had crushed Egypt’s merchants were lifted – and the repression of the Jews and Christians was at an end. Henceforth, they would enjoy the same civil rights as their Muslim brothers. A number of street thugs – well used to beating Jews and molesting their womenfolk, for everyone knew that Jewish women were whores – had tried that very evening to sport with the Jews. The green-clad soldiers had beaten them, killed several, and marched their prisoners off to the vast pens that were already being erected outside the city.
The word spread rapidly. In the mosques, the sheikhs and imams worked
to raise the anger of the crowd. The day after the beatings saw vast mobs rising up in Cairo, intent on tearing the Sultan and his army limb from limb. Even the Mamelukes had feared the wrath of the crowd; now, with their holy men in the lead, the crowds advanced towards the soldiers. And a special detachment of men – half carrying clubs and shields, the other half carrying whips – advanced to meet them. They had trained hard to deal with rioters. The riot came to a bloody end only a few minutes after the crowd had slammed into the soldiers and had been stopped cold. Hundreds died in the crush; others tried to flee, only to discover that the soldiers were blocking most of the escape routes. The crowd’s dominance of the city was brought to an end in blood and pain.
Those that survived were marched out to the holding pens, where their first task was to dig a mass grave for their comrades who hadn’t survived the riot. The Sultan had abolished slavery, but there were still vast projects to be undertaken in the empire and he had plans for the rioters. Five years spent helping to dig a canal between the Mediterranean and the Red Sea would teach them their true place in the Ottoman Empire. Egypt’s long period of de facto independence had come to an end.
Henry Blackburn, still a Lord in the privacy of his own mind, smiled darkly as he saw the crosses outside the Viceroy’s palace. The religious leaders of Cairo, the ones who had directed the crowd to its bloody meeting with the Sultan’s men, had been crucified, a clear symbol of the Sultan’s determination to prove that he was in charge. They would be replaced, his guide had assured him, by religious leaders trained in Istanbul itself, ones trusted to ensure that the Sultan’s laws were respected. That, he told himself firmly, was the way to deal with the rabble. None of the coddling that had forced him to flee London; nothing, but brutal punishment. He had little time for Turks and less still for Islam, but perhaps there was something England could learn from their customs.
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