“If we survived the fall,” Raechel pointed out.
“Better not to take chances,” Irene said. “Even with Lady Gwen along, survival would become rather doubtful.”
She smiled, then opened the door and walked onto the streets. Raechel followed, feeling slightly more natural in the simple dress. The crowds were growing larger as the day wore on, hundreds of thousands of men and women celebrating the defeat of the French. But, this time, she could sense eyes glancing in her direction. Countless young men were looking at them as they walked past.
I’m decently dressed, she thought, shocked. No one had stared at her so blatantly when she’d been on the streets before, even when she’d been heading to the club. They shouldn't be looking at me.
But they were. She forced herself to keep walking, remembering that she was nothing more than a shop girl out for an evening stroll with her friend. This time, Irene kept them well away from the alleyways, perhaps fearing what would happen if they walked into the darkness. Raechel couldn't help feeling relieved as the day slowly turned into evening and the crowds got louder and louder. It wasn't the sort of place Raechel the Shop Girl would go, she was sure. She’d have headed back home long ago.
The crowd drew apart, suddenly. Raechel blinked in surprise as she recognised Lady Gotham, striding up the road as if she owned the city. She was followed by a tired-looking maid, who was carrying so many boxes that she looked to be on the verge of falling over and dropping everything. The maid stopped for a moment, just to catch her breath and Lady Gotham whirled around, beginning a long tirade on the subject of lazy servants who didn't know what was good for them. Raechel couldn't help feeling sorry for the poor girl. The crowds were staring as she was berated in public.
“Come on,” Irene hissed.
They were midway down the next street when she heard a handful of men behind them, laughing and joking together. She tensed as they were suddenly surrounded, then gasped in shock as she felt a hand squeezing her buttock. Before she could stop herself, she whirled round and slapped the man right across the face. His comrades laughed loudly and hurried onwards, a couple of them waving cheerfully as they passed. Even the man she’d slapped was laughing.
Raechel glared at them, suddenly understanding just how the whores felt. She was practically alone, without the protection of clothes that marked her as a member of the aristocracy ... if they’d wanted to do worse to her, she couldn't have stopped them. She felt naked, yet soiled, her skin itching where he’d touched her. Raechel the Shop Girl wouldn't have dared tell anyone, either. Her father might have blamed her for her fall from grace.
“You’ll have to learn to cope with worse,” Irene muttered. “Trust me on this.”
“I want a bath,” Raechel muttered back.
“Once we get home,” Irene told her. “Do you want to back out now?”
“No,” Raechel said, firmly. What was left for her in London? Her aunt would be back in her home soon enough, bullying the servants and trying to run Raechel’s life. “I’ll keep going.”
“Very good,” Irene said. “But believe me, you will encounter worse.”
Chapter Six
“Sir James Braddock, My Lady,” Doctor Norwell said.
Gwen looked up from her desk as Sir James was shown into the room. He wore his combat tunic, rather than his normal suit and tie; she wondered, absently, just who he was trying to impress. Sir James was a married man, she knew, but he and his wife had surprisingly little contact, even for members of the aristocracy. It was quite possible he had a mistress or two on the side.
Or he just wanted to see what would happen in London, she thought, rising. She’d heard stories of giant street parties, where all the normal rules seemed to have gone out the window and men and women had danced together without supervision. All the nice girls love a uniform.
“Welcome back,” she said, holding out a hand. “And congratulations on your victory.”
“It was the Duke’s victory, not mine,” Sir James assured her. He shook her hand with none of the hesitation most men would show. “Dover surrendered, once we had the enclave sealed off and under constant shellfire. The frogs preferred to march into camps rather than face our people.”
Gwen nodded as she waved him to a chair, then sat back down behind her desk. The stories of what farmers had done to lone Frenchmen had only grown more bloodcurdling in the last couple of days, ranging from Frenchmen being brutally murdered to Frenchmen being castrated and crucified. Not that she blamed them, not really. The stories of what had happened to British men and women, caught behind the lines, were equally unpleasant, while the French had inflicted vast damage on the farmland. It was going to be a nightmare for the refugees, she knew. The government was unlikely to commit much money to help rebuild after the war.
Too much bloody socialism, she thought. Lord Liverpool was one of the most tight-fisted Prime Ministers in recent history, a man who begrudged every last penny in the budget. Who wants to help farmers?
“There were nine deaths in all, among the corps,” Sir James added. “Their bodies have already been shipped back to their families for burial.”
“We’ll have to hold a service for them, afterwards,” Gwen said. She wondered, absently, if she’d be in Britain for the end of the war. America might consume her attention for the next few years. “Their families have been compensated?”
“They’ll have the payments sent to them, I believe,” Sir James assured her. “I don’t think they’ll lack for anything.”
“Very good,” Gwen said. She cleared her throat as she sat upright. “I’m going to America for the next few months, perhaps longer.”
Sir James nodded. He didn't look surprised. It had been meant to be a secret, but someone in the government must have blabbed, either to impress his family or to make connections with Major Shaw’s family. Or maybe Lord Mycroft had quietly authorised the release of the information, just to make it clear that Gwen was facing some punishment. It would help keep Major Shaw’s family quiet.
And he probably got a lot of blood bloods killed when the Hussars attacked, she thought, darkly. Would their families not have something to say about that?
“You will hold the position of Royal Sorcerer, in my absence,” Gwen continued. Sir James hadn't done a bad job, while she’d been in Russia, although there had been relatively little to do. Everyone had been preparing for the war. “I’m not sure what use the government will make of the sorcerers, but I imagine you’ll make yourself useful.”
“I’m sure we’ll find something to do,” Sir James agreed. “A descent on their coastlines would definitely give the French something to worry about.”
Gwen scowled. The French had a far more powerful army than Britain; indeed, their build-up of ironclads, merchant shipping, airships and submarines had been a major concern over the last few years. Britain’s navy was far stronger, but two-thirds of it were scattered all over the globe. If the French managed to gain even a limited superiority in the English Channel for a week, their army would almost certainly crush Britain’s defences and take London.
But they gave it their best shot, she thought. And we won.
“Landing on their coastline would mean facing their army on its territory,” she said. “Is that something we dare to risk?”
“If we don't, the war stalemates, like every other war we’ve fought with the French since the Seven Years War,” Sir James countered. “And neither side will be closer to total victory.”
“True,” Gwen said. Lord Mycroft and the Duke of Iron would decide Britain’s future steps, once the American situation was stabilised. “Are you willing to take on the role?”
“I don’t anticipate immediate problems,” Sir James said. “Do you?”
“Not while there’s a war on,” Gwen said. She met his eyes. “Afterwards ... try to be diplomatic.”
Sir James nodded, curtly. “Thank you,” he said. “When do I actually take command?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Gwen said. She’d been tempted to lumber him with all the paperwork, but it was her job. “I should have everything straightened out by then, I think.”
“Very good,” Sir James said.
“There isn't anything new,” Gwen added. Sir James was already familiar with the duties of a Royal Sorcerer. “The new recruits for training should be arriving next week, unless it gets diverted because of the war; make sure they’re trained as quickly as possible. They’re going to be needed.”
“Understood,” Sir James said.
He paused. “And Major Shaw?”
“Has not recovered,” Gwen said, flatly. She felt another stab of guilt, mingled with bitter frustration. If the idiot had had the sense to follow orders ... “He’s under observation in the ward.”
“I thought he could be kept under control,” Sir James said. “But he saw the war as a chance to win glory.”
Gwen scowled, remembering the battle. Crawling in the mud was hardly ladylike, but it had kept her alive. If a French sniper had managed to catch sight of her, she might have died before she knew she was under attack. She had tried to keep her magic around her in a protective shroud, but she knew it wasn't easy ... she shook her head. If that was glory, Major Shaw was welcome to it.
“I'm sure there would have been plenty of opportunities to get himself heroically killed elsewhere,” she said. She had to fight down a sneer. “All he did was get a great many other men killed, for nothing.”
“I know,” Sir James said. “But he didn't have the experience to know better.”
“And thought I couldn't tell what to do,” Gwen added. She sighed. Major Shaw had wanted to believe it was time to send in the Hussars. “Idiot.”
She looked back down at her papers, no longer feeling in the right frame of mind to read them. She did have a secretary, thankfully, but there were just too many matters that had to be handled by the Royal Sorceress personally. Sir James would have to cope with them, while she was gone ... in the certain knowledge that the various departmental heads would feel free to ask Gwen to reverse any decisions after she returned. No doubt she’d have a whole pile of petitions to read and answer when she came back.
“I’ll formally transfer authority tomorrow morning,” she said, rising. “Thank you for coming.”
Sir James looked surprised at her sudden dismissal, but merely rose to his feet and strode out of the room. Gwen watched him go, torn between envy and a bitterness that had grown increasingly common over the last year. She could catch a murderer, a murderer who had also been a traitor and a spy; she could face a maddened undead monster in Russia and win ... and yet, she wasn't considered a suitable replacement for Master Thomas. It wasn't just that she was a girl too, although that was a convenient excuse. Ideally, she would have had years with Master Thomas, learning the ropes as well as where the skeletons were buried, before she took the job.
Jack would have had those years, she thought, sourly. Master Thomas had thought highly of his young protégée. Hell, if he’d stayed loyal, Gwen doubted she would ever have been called to the colours herself. He could have stayed in the corps and made changes from the inside.
She shook her head as she opened the hidden door and made her way down the secret staircase. A year of butting heads with the bureaucracy - and the various vested interests that made up the Royal College - had taught her that change, true chance, came slowly. And if she hadn't managed to find two new talents, the Royal College wouldn't have changed anything like as much as it had. The old men - and they were old men - in charge hated the thought of anything changing.
And Master Thomas could keep them in line, she thought, as she reached the hidden exit in the lower basement. They don’t take me so seriously.
Learning against the wall, she reached out with her mind, testing to make sure no one was there to see her when she opened the door. She had no idea why Master Thomas had converted the servant corridors to secret passages, but she had to admit they made it easy to get around the vast building without being detected. Only Doctor Norwell and Lord Mycroft knew they even existed, although she suspected that some of the aristocratic magicians had guessed. Servant passages were meant to keep the servants out of sight, away from their betters. She opened the door, stepped through into the corridor and closed it hastily behind her. The Healer Ward was just down the corridor.
“Lady Gwen,” Lucy said, as Gwen stepped through the door. “You are well?”
“Well enough,” Gwen said. Lucy might be used to irritating men, but Gwen doubted the Healer could do anything to cure her real problem. “Is he still in the ward?”
“I’m afraid so,” Lucy said. “Even feeding him has been a bit of a problem.”
Gwen nodded, then walked down the corridor. There weren't many patients in the ward, not when it normally took only a few minutes for the Healers to work their magic. Indeed, the only real problem was the shortage of Healers. They were a rare breed, apparently, and every Healer they'd found had been female. Luckily, the prospect of being healed was enough to convince men to visit a female Healer. Male doctors might as well have been butchers for all the good they could do.
Major Shaw was sleeping in a metal chair, straps wrapped around his wrists and ankles. He looked normal at first, Gwen thought, until she saw his eyes. They were twitching backwards and forwards under the eyelids, as if they were on the verge of popping out of his head. She took a step forward, unsure what - if anything - she should do. If there was a way to cure his mind through magic, Lucy would have found it by now.
“You inflicted a great deal of harm,” Lucy said, quietly. “Did you know ...?”
“No,” Gwen said. “I ...”
Major Shaw jerked awake, his blue eyes flickering from side to side before focusing on Gwen. He opened his mouth and screamed, a high-pitched sound that was so loud Gwen stumbled backwards, covering her ears. Lucy pointed a finger towards the door; Gwen nodded and hurried back out of the ward. Behind her, the screams continued to echo until one of the orderlies slammed the heavy door closed.
Gwen cursed under her breath, feeling yet another stab of guilt. Charmers had been known to cause mental breakdowns, when their victim was unable to hide from reality any longer, but such breakdowns rarely lasted long. Even a weak-willed man could come to terms with what had happened to him, if he tried. But Major Shaw seemed to have been completely broken, perhaps for the rest of his life. He had been an arrogant bastard who’d gotten over a hundred good men killed ...
... And yet he doesn't deserve to be broken, Gwen thought, bitterly. It was her fault. In hindsight, there were plenty of other options she could have used. But in her frustration and anger she’d made a mistake. And now he has to pay the price.
She wandered slowly back up to her office, glancing into the empty training rooms as she passed. The training cadre had done a good job of stripping the building of everything necessary to train young magicians, although most of the equipment would be easy to replace. Her lips quirked; no one on the outside would believe it, if they saw the room. It was commonly believed that magicians needed staffs, wands and potions made from fancy ingredients to do their work ...
A thought struck her and she scowled. Jack, no doubt, had taught the French precisely how to construct their own training facility.
Not that it would have been that hard, once they stopped thinking of magicians as demons, she thought, coldly. The basic principles of magic aren’t hard to deduce, even without a teacher.
“Lady Emily,” Doctor Norwell called, when she walked past his office. It was right next to hers, one of Master Thomas’s arrangements she’d never bothered to change. “There are two of Lord Mycroft’s men, here to see you. They’re waiting in the visitor’s room.”
Gwen frowned in puzzlement. Lord Mycroft had sent her an immense stack of files to read, but nothing else. She hadn't been expecting to see him until shortly before her departure, still three days away. But some
thing might have come up. Shaking her head, she walked down the corridor and peered into the visitor’s room. Two young men were seated on the sofa, wearing the bland suit and tie of government servants. There was something odd about their faces.
“Lady Gwen,” the first man said, rising to his feet. “May I say what a great pleasure it is to meet the Royal Sorceress face to face?”
Gwen felt her eyes narrow. That was hardly a common form of address. She looked at both men, puzzled. There was definitely something odd about them ...
Understanding clicked. “Irene?”
The young man smirked. “Got you that time,” he - she - said. There was a hint of cockney in her voice. “How do we look?”
“Raechel,” Gwen said, looking at the other figure. Now she knew who she was looking at, it was easy to see the subtle clues that the person wasn't remotely masculine. “You look ... different.”
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