One of the Cossacks said something in Russian. Olivia looked over at him and realised he was holding the boy who’d caught her by the arm. Ivan said something back and the boy tried to run, too late. The Cossack drew his sword – it looked like a cutlass – and sliced through the boy’s throat in one smooth motion. Olivia felt sick as the boy’s body tumbled to the ground, and for the first time, found herself missing the Bow Street Runners. They could be brutal and utterly unsympathetic, but they didn’t kill informers out of hand. But, she realised bitterly, the Cossacks had killed him just to issue a warning to her. They would happily kill her too, if they didn’t need her.
Ivan picked her up, then threw her over the horse. Olivia gasped in pain as her bruised jaw hit the side of the animal, then realised that she was going to be carried in this absurd and undignified position. Ivan slapped her bottom, hard enough to sting, then walked around and shook his head sadly at her. He didn’t look a bit regretful, merely annoyed. Olivia wanted to spit at him again, but resisted the temptation. It was clear that they were quite prepared to beat her into submission if they considered it necessary.
She scowled at him, then winced as he patted her head and strode back to his own horse. If there was one thing the Rookery had taught her, it was the value of patience. There would be other opportunities to escape, she told herself firmly, and when she saw them she would take them. And next time she would be much more careful. Her next escape would be far better planned.
The horses neighed as their riders let out a shout, then started cantering forwards again. This time, thankfully, there were fewer people in the streets, but there were still some very close calls. Olivia finally closed her eyes, forcing herself to block out the sights around her. All she could do, she told herself bitterly, was wait. There would be a chance, she was sure ...
... Because the alternative was giving in to despair.
Chapter Five
Gwen heard the marching band long before the players – and the soldiers – came into view, parading along Pall Mall to the beat of a drum. The 5th Highland Regiment was marching to take up positions in the southeast of England, preparing for a French invasion – or to invade France itself, if that seemed possible. Hundreds of children were clapping and cheering as the Highlanders marched onwards, while young women – even some clearly of aristocratic birth – were smiling and waving at the soldiers. Gwen had to smile, despite the constant fear for her daughter in her heart. Every girl seemed to love a soldier.
But then, Britain doesn’t have a large standing army, she reminded herself. The Royal Navy – the impregnable wooden walls defending the nation – made it impossible for an enemy to actually land on British soil. Or so they hoped; she knew enough about recent developments in naval technology to fear that the Royal Navy might have some rough days ahead. But the last time Britain had had a standing army, it had proved as unpopular as they now were in France, Russia and even the German states.
She smiled as she stepped inside the café and sat down, taking a seat in the window. It was a fashionable place these days, although Gwen had no idea why. A handful of middle-aged women sat in one corner, pretending not to look at the soldiers, while several young couples were chatting at private tables. They were being chaperoned, Gwen noted, just to make sure that nothing untoward happened before their weddings. It would be a major scandal if a couple was found to have anticipated their wedding night. And it would almost always be blamed on the girl. Women were often charged with being unable to control their emotions.
Gwen snorted, remembering Sir Charles. She had been attracted to him, she had to admit, but she hadn’t allowed her emotions to blind her too far. It could easily have been a great deal worse, she knew, if she hadn’t realised just how carefully he was manipulating her. And then ... she would probably have lost her position, if not her life. A husband would be in an excellent position to stick a knife in her back.
She looked over at one of the young couples – the girl younger than Gwen, the boy a couple of years older – and felt a stab of envy. They were innocent, ignorant of the responsibilities of adulthood, the responsibilities that Gwen had assumed when Master Thomas had died. She wouldn’t trade her position for a return to aristocratic life, not as a young lady under her mother’s thumb, but it would be nice to be able to put the burden down for a while. And yet there were no other Master Magicians ready to take her place. As far as she knew, she was the last Master Magician to be discovered.
The door opened, revealing Lord Mycroft and another man. Gwen rose to her feet and smiled at Lord Mycroft, then nodded at the newcomer. They were very different; Lord Mycroft was immensely fat, with the sharp lines of his face weakened by overeating, while the stranger was tall and thin, with short ginger hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. Gwen eyed him sharply, remembering Sir Charles. The newcomer had the same air of infinite competence around him as her would-be seducer and betrayer had had. But she’d killed him in the end.
“Lady Gwen,” Lord Mycroft said. “Thank you for coming.”
Gwen sat down and waved to the waiter, who bustled over with a set of menus. Lord Mycroft ordered tea and cake without bothering to actually look at the list of foods; the stranger inspected it minutely, before ordering tea and scones for himself. Gwen ordered a cup of tea for herself, then settled back in her chair. It was rare for Lord Mycroft to be seen outside his office, his apartment or the Diogenes Club. For him to come to a café, no matter how fashionable, and meet her there was extraordinary. It suggested that there was some deeper purpose to the meeting.
“Lady Gwen,” Lord Mycroft said. “Allow me to introduce you to Sir Sidney Campbell, one of my special agents.”
Sir Sidney stood up and bowed, then took Gwen’s hand and kissed it lightly. “Charmed,” he said. His voice held a faint Scottish accent, suggesting that his family came from the other side of the border, but that he’d spent enough time in England to lose the brogue. “It is always a pleasure to meet a magician.”
Gwen smiled, despite herself. “You’re one of the few people who would say that,” she said, dryly. “Far too many people find magicians unwanted company.”
The waiter returned, carrying a large teapot, a jug of milk, three cups and a plate of cakes and scones. Gwen couldn’t help noticing that one of the cups was significantly smaller than the other two, suggesting that she was expected to have a feminine quantity of tea. Rolling her eyes at the casual preconceptions of a world that expected her to be dainty and ladylike, she stood and poured tea for all three of them, then settled back with the smaller cup. There was enough liquid in the teapot for her to have another, if she felt like it.
Perhaps it does make sense, she thought reluctantly, as she saw one of the older women heading toward the toilet in the rear. The lady’s dress would be hard to take off, particularly if she were in a hurry. Gwen’s trousers were so much more practical, but, for women, propriety almost invariably prevailed over functionality and good sense. We aren’t even expected to go to the toilet outside our homes.
Lord Mycroft took a piece of carrot cake, then settled back in his seat. “There have been developments,” he said, without preamble. “We have managed to trace Olivia’s path out of England.”
Gwen felt as though a knife had stabbed her heart. If the kidnappers had wanted to kill the only known Necromancer, they could have killed Olivia at any moment and made their escape. And if they’d wanted to trade her for ransom, they wouldn’t have taken her too far from Cavendish Hall. But if they’d wanted to use her magic for themselves, they’d have to take her out of the country itself.
“Good,” she said, keeping her voice under tight control. “Where did she go?”
“We traced her passage to the docks,” Lord Mycroft said. It would have been his brother who had done the legwork, Gwen knew. “She was transferred to a steamer that was, officially, bound for Sweden. Unofficially, we have good reason to believe she was headed for Russia.”
Gwen muttered a very unladylike wo
rd, just loudly enough for them to hear. Lord Mycroft showed no reaction; Sir Sidney merely smiled, as if she’d amused him in some way. Gwen eyed him suspiciously, then sat up in her seat. Russia. The only consolation was that Olivia hadn’t been taken directly to France. After the French had been blamed for the necromantic outbreak in London at the height of the Swing, they’d certainly want to get their hands on a living Necromancer.
But Russia ... almost nothing was known about the Russian magical program, although everyone assumed the Russians definitely had a program. The French had been hampered by the Catholic Church’s resistance to any form of magic, even magic in the service of the Church; the Russians, as far as she knew, would have had no such obstacles barring their path to magical research. If the Russians wanted a Necromancer ... what did they intend to do with her? No matter who was behind the kidnap, no one would have gone to so much trouble unless they had a use in mind for a Necromancer.
“We don’t know,” Lord Mycroft confessed. Gwen scowled. As always, he could read her expressions and use them to divine her thoughts, far more subtly than the average mind-reading Talker. “But we don’t think the Russians have anything good in mind.”
Gwen couldn’t disagree. “We need to mount a rescue mission,” she said, firmly. “Whatever the cost, we have to get her back.”
Sir Sidney smiled. “Searching all of Russia for her would be tricky,” he observed. “The Russians control more territory than us, most of it harsh and desolate wasteland.”
Lord Mycroft gave him a sharp look, then nodded. “We don’t intend to just let this pass,” he said. “But finding her is going to be a challenge.”
Gwen wanted to place her head in her hands. He was right, she knew; they were both right. It would be impossible to compel the Russians to return her daughter without the threat of force and she knew the global situation well enough to understand that threatening Russia wouldn’t be very easy. Indeed, it would trigger the war that everyone expected to start at any moment.
“There are options, however,” Lord Mycroft continued. “I do not believe that they would have taken her very far from St Petersburg, their capital. The Tsar likes to keep control of his Empire firmly in his own hands. It is quite likely that their magic-research program is based there.”
He took a breath. “At the moment, it is unclear if the Russians are actually planning to join the French in war against us or not,” he said. “The Russians have been giving contradictory answers to everyone who asks, British or French. On one hand, they want to wage war on the Turks; on the other, they’re reluctant to risk another war after the last one turned into a disaster.”
Gwen nodded. Russia’s disastrous recent history had nearly brought about the collapse of its Empire. Tsar Nicolas I had considered the Ottoman Empire a prime target for violence, perhaps with the long-term aim of recovering Istanbul for the Orthodox Faith. But the Ottoman Sultan had been reforming his armies and regenerating his Empire’s moribund economy and the results had surprised everyone. The Russians had been forced back, whole armies had been destroyed and dangerous tremors had run through the entire state. In the end, the Russians had conceded defeat. No one realistically expected them to accept it indefinitely.
“The Russians have agreed to accept an ambassadorial party to discuss matters,” Lord Mycroft continued, breaking into her thoughts. “On the surface, this party will be intended to raise the possibility of keeping Russia out of the war, should it actually break out.”
“And with a covert purpose of finding my daughter,” Gwen said.
“Precisely,” Lord Mycroft said.
Gwen looked down at the pile of cakes for a long moment, then looked up at him. “I will be accompanying the mission,” she said. “I am the most capable magician available.”
Lord Mycroft looked embarrassed. “We would prefer not to send you openly,” he said, after a long pause. “You are simply far too recognisable. Besides, the Russians would be very wary of you and your powers. We don’t want to spook them when war is so close.”
Gwen glowered at him, rebelliously. “I’m not leaving my daughter there,” she snapped. “I will go if you like it or not.”
“I’m not asking you to leave her there,” Lord Mycroft said. He leaned forward. “You just can’t go as yourself.”
“You want me to go in disguise,” Gwen said. She looked down at her mannish trousers and winced, inwardly. It was simple enough to pose as a man for a few short hours, but the longer she tried to maintain the deception, the more cracks would appear in the act. There was no way she could go to a male toilet – at least a public one – without revealing her true sex. “As what?”
Sir Sidney leaned forward. “As a maid,” he said, flatly. “No one ever pays attention to the help.”
He was right, Gwen knew. As a child, she’d thrilled to stories of brave adventurers making their way through enemy territory disguised as servants, traders or even religious figures. Sir Charles had seemed a dream come true, when they’d met, simply because he reminded her of her childhood heroes. And he’d actually dressed up as a native and walked among them, sight unseen. A servant would pass unnoticed where a noblewoman would be blindingly obvious.
“To be precise, we will insert you into the Ambassador’s retinue as one of the maids,” Lord Mycroft said. “He will be unaware of your true identity, as will everyone else on the mission with the exception of Sir Sidney. You will be required to play the role until you find Olivia and recover her, whereupon Sir Sidney will assume command of the mission and act as he sees fit. We have provided sealed orders for him to use if necessary.”
“I see,” Gwen said. “It sounds like a workable plan.”
She smiled. There was no point in trying to direct events from thousands of miles away. The British Empire had expanded so far by trusting the officers on the spot to make the right decisions, without high command peering over their shoulders. Besides, even with Talkers, the situation could change remarkably before the updated orders could be sent, let alone received.
“It won’t be easy,” Lord Mycroft warned. “You will have to act the part of a maid until the time comes for you to reveal yourself.”
Gwen swallowed as the full implications sank into her mind. Young Ladies of Quality did almost nothing for themselves, certainly nothing relating to household chores. Her mother had tried to teach her how to sew, which was seen as a ladylike occupation, but she hadn’t taught Gwen how to manage a household, at least beyond issuing orders to the help. Maids, on the other hand, were expected to work from dawn to dusk for only a minimum wage. If they complained ... well, there was no shortage of young women trying to make a living from serving their social superiors. A maid could be kicked out of the house if she dared to utter a single complaint.
And there were worse things that could happen than merely being yelled at by the Lady of the House.
“I understand,” she said. It was for Olivia – and for the British Empire. If Sir Charles and Sir Travis could endure torture for the sake of the nation, she could play the role of a lady’s maid. “I can do it.”
Lord Mycroft gave her a long considering look. Gwen couldn’t read minds, but she was sure she knew what he was thinking. She’d grown up in High Society, even if they’d considered her a devil-child rather than a normal young lady to be shaped and moulded into the ideal debutante and socialite. It might have been a hard life at times, but it was nowhere near as bad as being one of the lower classes. She had been isolated and largely abandoned to a stream of tutors, yet she hadn’t been kicked, beaten or forced to sell her body to survive. And her magic had ensured she was effectively unmarriageable.
“Good,” Lord Mycroft said, finally. “Sidney?”
Sir Sidney smiled, tapping his fingernails as he spoke. “The mission will be headed by Lord Henry Standish, who has been appointed the Special Ambassador to Russia,” he said. “Lord Standish has considerable experience in important negotiations and, more importantly, has been granted a certa
in amount of leeway in the hopes we can bribe the Russians to stay out of the war. I will be accompanying him as Military Attaché and his second, in the event of him needing to be overruled at some point.”
He paused. “Lord Standish will be selecting the remainder of his staff from his cronies,” he added. “We won’t know who they are until the mission is ready to depart, although we have some good guesses. However, he will also be taking his wife, Lady Marie” – Gwen twitched at the reminder of her mother’s name – “and his ward, Raechel Slater-Standish.”
Gwen frowned. She paid almost no attention to the society pages, but she knew of Raechel Slater-Standish from overhearing conversations in Cavendish Hall. The young woman had been blazing a path through High Society, scandalising it and giving plenty of older women the vapours. Gwen had to admire someone like that, even though it was the sort of release she could never allow herself, not now. Anyone who managed to irritate so many of High Society’s Grande Dames deserved to be admired.
“I believe the young lady is seen as rather a trial,” Lord Mycroft said. There was a faint hint of amusement on his face. “You may wish to keep an eye on her at all times.”
“Because she’ll try to cause trouble?” Gwen guessed. It seemed likely, but she could think of another explanation. “Or because you want to recruit her?”
“It is a possibility,” Lord Mycroft agreed, neutrally. “She’s smart, but totally indiscreet. We might not consider her a suitable candidate for recruitment unless she grows up.”
Necropolis Page 5