Necropolis

by Christopher Nuttall

  Gregory said something back, something Olivia didn’t understand, then turned to face her. “I want you to try to take him now,” he ordered. “Make him one of the undead.”

  Olivia stared at him in astonishment. It had honestly never occurred to her – or any of the other researchers – that it was possible for a Necromancer to turn a living human into one of the undead. But then, if the undead spread by biting their victims, it might just be possible to do it directly, rather than having to start with a dead body. She hesitated, just long enough to hear a warning grumble from Ivan, then stepped forward and touched the prisoner’s forehead. It was hot and sweaty, despite the cold ... and, in its own way, as unresponsive to her power as the previous corpse. She could practically feel his life energy pushing her power aside as she tried to touch him.

  She shuddered as the implications sank into her mind. She was Gwen’s adopted daughter, heir to Master Thomas’s considerable fortune, and few people knew her origins. It wouldn’t be long, she knew, until she was old enough to marry ... and she knew the aristocracy had plenty of poorer members who would be willing to overlook any discrepancy in her origins just to get their hands on her money. And she wasn’t entirely averse to the idea of marrying ... but what if she couldn’t touch another living person? Gwen hugged her, from time to time, but Gwen was a magician. Could a normal human touch her without pushing her away?

  Ivan cleared his throat, drawing her back to herself. Marriage was unlikely, she knew; the Russians would never give up on her. They’d want to see, eventually, if one Necromancer could give birth to others. If the British Empire had been prepared to try to farm magicians, to have lower-class girls impregnated and forced to carry magical children to term, what would the Russians be prepared to do? Gregory hadn’t done anything that suggested he had any scruples about how he researched magic. Some of his experiments had taken the concept of scientific research further than anything the British Empire had ever tried.

  “It doesn’t work,” Olivia said, relieved. “His body is completely untouchable.”

  She let out a sigh of relief, despite the knowledge that she might be beaten for daring to fail. She hadn’t wanted to discover that she could bring death and servitude with a touch. Some of the people she’d worked for in the Rookery would have found it a useful gift, but Olivia was repelled by the very thought. Besides, they’d been able to call on Charmers to influence people if terror and beatings hadn’t been sufficient. They hadn’t needed a Necromancer who might easily lose control of her creations.

  Gregory nodded, stepped forward and placed his hand on the prisoner’s forehead. Olivia stumbled backwards and Ivan pulled her away, just as Gregory began to chant in a manner that sent chills down her spine. It didn’t sound as though he was speaking in Russian, but it was impossible to tell for sure. The prisoner seemed to understand, given how he tried to shrink away from the monkish Russian. But the chains kept him firmly in place. Olivia watched in growing horror as Gregory pulled a knife from his sleeve, his chanting growing louder and louder, then pressed it into the young man’s throat. Blood spurted from his wound as his body jerked, then subsided.

  “Good,” Gregory said. Blood pooled around his feet as he turned to face Olivia. “Bring him back to life.”

  Olivia couldn’t move. Shock and terror held her frozen. She’d met Healers, several Healers, and none of them had been able to kill, once they knew how to use their powers. Lucy might have been violent from time to time – a woman who couldn’t look after herself in the Rookery was hideously vulnerable, unless she had a strong man to serve as her protector – but she’d never actually killed anyone, even the most aggressive of johns. None of the other Healers had been able to kill either.

  But Gregory had killed ... and done it as casually as a man might butcher a hog.

  Life is cheap here, she realised, remembering just how many prisoners she’d seen in the complex. Men and women, boys and girls ... they’d all been taken into the building and then put to use, forgotten by the outside world. The Rookery had been bad – she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, just how long she would have lasted if she’d been forced into a brothel – but this was worse. And how much worse will it be if they master Necromancy?

  “Bring him back to life,” Gregory ordered, as he returned his knife to his sleeve. Olivia had seen concealed weapons before, but she hadn’t even realised he had the knife. His robes could hide a small arsenal. “Now.”

  Olivia shuddered as Ivan poked her back, then took a step forward, trying to avoid the spreading pool of blood. It was funny just how fastidious she’d become in the six months since Gwen had taken her out of the Rookery; once, she’d thought nothing of working as a tanner-girl or tosh-faker. Now, the thought of doing anything of the sort made her feel sick at heart. But there was no way to escape, no way to avoid being compelled to work for Gregory ... she reached out and touched the dead man’s forehead for the second time. It was still warm, but this time the resistance was gone ...

  The change happened so swiftly that she was caught by surprise. One moment, it was a cooling dead body; the next, it was lunging forward, struggling desperately against the chains holding it in place. Olivia yelped, as teeth snapped at her throat, only to be saved at the last moment by Ivan, who yanked her backwards with enough force to send them both sprawling on the floor. Gregory snorted, rudely, never taking his eyes off the new creature as it pulled against the chains. There was a look on his face that reminded Olivia of some of the johns, admiring the whores. It was a mixture of lust for their bodies and the desire for power over someone smaller and weaker than themselves.

  It was a long, chilling moment before the whispering began. This time, it seemed to be clearer, but it was still maddeningly impossible to make out properly. She gritted her teeth, trying to block it out, finally feeling a little sympathy for one of the Talkers she’d known at Cavendish Hall. The boy had read her mind and blurted out what she’d been thinking – and she’d punched him in the face, which was unladylike behaviour according to her tutors – but she knew now he probably didn’t have any control over his abilities. To him, everyone was whispering.

  There must be a connection, part of her mind noted. He hears the living, I hear the dead.

  The undead creature moaned, then pulled itself forward. Olivia kept her face expressionless as she realised that the creature didn’t feel pain. It was pulling at the chains, breaking its own bones, just to get free and attack the living humans. Gregory’s smile grew wider as the creature pulled its hands free, then came forward with startling speed. Ivan swore, shouted a command in Russian, and yanked Olivia back towards the door. The door burst open, revealing two armoured men carrying spears. One of them charged forward, impaling the undead creature on his spear; the other hung back, drawing a sword from his belt.

  Olivia watched, unable to take her eyes off the scene, as the undead creature started to pull itself along the spear, advancing on the soldier with murderous intent. The other soldier ran forward, sword in hand, and took aim at the undead creature’s neck. Gregory barked a command and the soldier froze, then stumbled backwards. The creature grabbed for the spear-holding soldier, caught his arm and yanked him forward. Olivia heard the whispering grow louder as the undead creature bit the soldier, its teeth shattering against the armour protecting the man’s arm. Moments later, it pulled away enough of the armour to bite the man’s bare flesh. And then there were two voices whispering as the soldier sank to the ground, magic flaring through his body.

  He looked up. His eyes were yellow. His skin was paling rapidly.

  “Out,” Ivan snapped. He caught Olivia by the scruff of her neck and shoved her out of the door, then followed her as more soldiers appeared, one of them carrying a crude flamethrower and looking grimly determined to use it if necessary. “Get up the corridor, now!”

  Olivia obeyed, willingly. Behind her, she heard someone shouting in Russian – Ivan muttered a word she was sure was a curse – and a series of b
anging sounds. Ivan shoved her through the armoured doors as soon as they reached them, then sagged in relief. Olivia felt little of it. The whispering at the back of her head was growing louder. Either the undead were getting closer or they were growing more numerous. She wasn’t sure which one she preferred.

  She took a breath. Shaken as he was, Ivan might just give her a straight answer for once.

  “This is madness,” she said. “What’s the point of it?”

  “Saving the Father Tsar,” Ivan said. He sounded badly shaken. “There is no other point to it.”

  Olivia shuddered as he caught her arm and pulled her along the corridor, through a network of passages that seemed disturbingly empty. The whispering faded slowly, but it remained as a constant presence at the back of her head. Nothing she did, even the mental disciplines they’d tried to teach her at Cavendish Hall, stilled the whispering. But then, she hadn’t paid much attention to those lessons. She’d never seen the need for them.

  “You can have a wash,” Ivan said. “I’ll have some food sent to you.”

  “Thank you,” Olivia said, sourly. Right now, being naked and vulnerable was the last thing she wanted. But she knew she looked and smelt disgusting. “Can’t you tell him to stop before it really gets out of hand?”

  Ivan shrugged. “I have faith that we can control what we do here,” he said. “And if we can’t, we can destroy the entire complex if necessary.”

  Olivia hoped he was right. In vast numbers, the undead were terrifyingly fast and intelligent, capable of actually thinking and planning. It was easy to imagine the Russians losing control and being eaten, until the entire country was dead. And then the undead would come swarming westwards, eating their way through the German states and France. Could they cross small bodies of water, like rivers? She had no idea.

  “Madness,” she said. “It’s madness.”

  Ivan caught her arm and turned her to face him. “Remember this,” he said. “No one else here will tolerate you saying that, even if you’re right. They exist to serve the Father Tsar.”

  His voice lowered. “And so do you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Gwen had never been one for rising late. As a young girl, she’d treasured the time she’d had alone while her parents and older brother were still abed; as the Royal Sorceress, she hadn’t dared show any kind of weakness by sleeping late. But she hadn’t realised just how early the servants had to rise or just how much work they had to do before their lords and masters stirred from their slumber. If Janet hadn’t shaken her awake, Gwen knew she would have overslept badly, at least by their standards. As it was, she found herself wanting to go back to sleep within an hour of climbing out of bed.

  But that simply wasn’t an option. She swept the floors, laid the fires, washed clothes for the trip to Russia and whatever else Cook or Janet told her to do, silently promising to ensure that the servants at Cavendish Hall received a large raise as soon as she got home. Her arms and legs ached from kneeling beside the stone fire, laying out the wood, then she had to struggle to light it with a match. Eventually, she gave up and used magic to start the blaze. It grew rapidly into a fire that would start heating up the entire household.

  Janet called her back into the kitchen, presented her with a tray carrying a large pot of coffee, two mugs, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. “Take it to the master bedroom,” she ordered, softly. “And be very quiet when you enter their room.”

  Gwen winced, inwardly, as she carried the tray up the stairs and tapped on the door. She had never been welcome in her parents’ bedroom, not even when she’d been a little girl and her magic hadn’t begun to surface. But the maids had always been allowed to enter ... she pushed the door open and peered into the room, silently relieved that the curtains were already open and light was streaming into the room. Lord Standish was sitting upright in bed, reading the latest issue of The Times. The front cover, Gwen couldn’t help noticing, warned of French spies captured near Hartlepool. She just hoped the locals hadn’t caught more monkeys.

  “Put it on the side,” Lord Standish ordered, shortly. “I’ll pour my own coffee.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” Gwen said, feeling a flush of embarrassment as she realised that Lord Standish was naked, with only a blanket protecting his private parts from her gaze. He wouldn’t care if she saw everything, she knew. It wasn’t as if she was his social equal, after all, but he’d be dreadfully embarrassed if Lady Gwen were to see him naked. “And Lady Standish?”

  Lord Standish looked over to where his wife was hidden under the blankets. “I will pour hers too,” he said. “Tell Cook that I will have eggs for breakfast.”

  Gwen curtseyed, then placed the tray on the table and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her. Cook nodded, unsurprised, when Gwen passed on the breakfast order, then pointed to a small table with a pot of eggs sitting beside a breadbasket. Janet was already there, eating a large plate of eggs and bread for her breakfast. Gwen sighed in relief – she also needed to eat – then sat down at the table. Janet chatted happily about nothing as they ate, then returned to their duties. It seemed there was no shortage of work for them to do as maids.

  I’m going to have to do something about this, Gwen thought, as she worked her way through a pile of washed clothes, placing them on the line to dry. Lord Standish, it seemed, was a firm believer in wearing dignified clothes to diplomatic meetings. People can’t be worked to death like this.

  Her own thoughts mocked her. She’d been a maid for one day, unless she counted Irene’s training, and she was already tired. Janet, according to the file, had been a maid since she was twelve years old; by now, she was practically one of the family. But she wasn’t, not really. If she made a serious mistake, or said the wrong thing, she could be pitched out onto the streets to die, unless she was lucky enough to find other employment in a hurry. Cook and Romulus would find it easier to get new employment ...

  She shook her head, bitterly. Something would have to change.

  But it won’t, as long as there is a constant supply of new maids from the countryside, she thought. There’s no incentive to change at all.

  She finished her work, then walked back to the kitchen, where she found Romulus chatting to Cook about the dinner menu for the following evening, before the family’s departure for Russia. Lord Standish was apparently planning a big dinner for his friends and political allies, something Gwen was privately dreading. Lord Mycroft wouldn’t attend, she knew, and he would keep his mouth shut in any case, but it was quite possible that someone would attend who could recognise her personally. If, of course, they paid any attention to the help. Gwen had only been in the household a day, more or less, and she’d discovered that Lord and Lady Standish were quite happy to talk about almost anything in front of her. A spy wearing a maid’s uniform would go almost undetected.

  And that’s how Augustus Howell managed to blackmail so many, she thought, grimly. He found disgruntled maids and foot servants and paid them well for anything they sold him that could be used for blackmail.

  “Gwen,” Romulus said. “A word with you.”

  Gwen felt her blood run cold. What can he want? she asked herself, as he led her into the next room. He held himself like an aristocrat, she noted, even when talking to the maids. She couldn’t tell if it was just an act or if he was trying to signify a barrier between them. It was probably the latter. A butler was on a far different level from a maid, particularly when the butler was black.

  “Her Ladyship informs me that she wishes to speak with you,” Romulus added. “You will attend on her after she has finished her breakfast.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gwen said, bobbing yet another curtsey. She silently ran the calculations in her head and decided that she’d curtseyed more in the last few days than she’d done in her entire life. But then, she’d never actually been presented at Court or taken from social engagement to social engagement by her mother. “Do you know what she wishes to talk about?”

  Romulus
’s face twitched. “I believe she wishes to speak about last night,” he said. There was a hint of definite amusement in his voice. “You appear to have done very well.”

  He turned and left, striding away with military precision. Gwen watched him go, then turned and headed back to the kitchen. It was quite likely she’d be expected to help Lady Standish dress and she knew that was one of her weaknesses. Janet could warn her of what to expect.

  Somewhat to her surprise, when the bell rang to summon her, she discovered that Lady Standish was already dressed in a morning gown. It was clear she wasn’t planning to leave the house, Gwen decided as she curtseyed and then waited for Lady Standish to deign to notice her. She would have worn something much more fashionable if she’d intended to call upon any of her friends. It suggested hidden depths to Lady Standish, she decided. Lady Mary had always been dressed fashionably, even when she’d had no intention of leaving the house.

  But Lady Standish is older than my mother, Gwen thought. The very elderly were allowed more social leeway than the younger women – and, by their standards, even Lady Mary was a young woman, despite having two adult children of her own. Is she old enough to care less about fashion than she seems?

  “Gwen,” Lady Standish said. “What happened last night?”

  Gwen thought fast. What – if anything – had Raechel told her Aunt about last night? It was hard to imagine her telling Lady Standish anything, but Lady Standish might well have heard about the fire near Pall Mall and put two and two together. Or perhaps that would be a deductive feat beyond even Lord Mycroft. It was much more likely that she wanted a general report and nothing else. And there were parts of the story Gwen knew she couldn’t tell.