Necropolis

by Christopher Nuttall

  She sighed, remembering the constant stream of scandals surrounding Lord Nelson, the First Sea Lord. Most sailors had a girl in several different ports, but Lord Nelson was simply too public a figure for it to remain unnoticed indefinitely. And other sailors often found themselves charged with bigamy for actually marrying more than one woman at the same time. There was no reason why an airship officer would be any different.

  “He wouldn’t,” Raechel insisted. “I like him!”

  “Or did you just want to have fun?” Gwen asked. “He is a handsome man, isn’t he?”

  She didn’t want to admit it, but she’d enjoyed the mild petting she’d indulged in with Sir Charles. But he’d been planning to either seduce or betray her in the end. Most doctors would swear on stacks of bibles that women knew nothing of sexual pleasure and didn’t care for sex, other than as a means of reproduction, yet all such doctors were male. Lucy, who was both a woman and a Healer, said those men were deluding themselves. And Gwen knew who she preferred to believe.

  Raechel eyed her. “This is my life,” she snapped. “I can do whatever I please!”

  “Of course you can,” Gwen said, mildly. Her voice hardened. “If, of course, you’re prepared to deal with the consequences.”

  She met Raechel’s eyes, silently daring her to look away. “You could have wound up pregnant, giving birth to a bastard child,” she warned. “You could have wound up abandoned, if he has another wife in another city. You could have been defiled, in the eyes of everyone who might have wanted to marry you. And, even if he did the decent thing and married you, you would have to endure life with him ...”

  Raechel froze for a split second, then raised her hand to slap Gwen. Gwen caught it, instinctively. It was a mistake, she realised instantly. As painful as it would have been, she would have been safer to allow Raechel to slap her, rather than catch her hand and prove that she was considerably more daring than any maidservant. Raechel stared at her for a long moment, then yanked her hand out of Gwen’s grasp and stepped backwards, rubbing her wrist. Gwen felt cold. She hadn’t meant to hurt the older girl, but she rarely got the chance to test her own strength.

  Men don’t like fighting me, she reflected, morbidly. And when they do, they hold back.

  “Your Aunt has hired me to make sure you remain reasonably safe until you are either married or come into your inheritance,” Gwen snapped, going on the offensive. “And you will not try to slap me again.”

  Raechel ignored her. “Who are you?”

  “Gwen,” Gwen said, truthfully. “And I am trying to look after you.”

  She winced, inwardly, as Raechel’s eyes studied her face. “Which Gwen?”

  Gwen said nothing.

  “I went to bed after the ... excitement ... at once,” Raechel said. She sounded as if she were working out a puzzle, piece by piece. “Why did I do that?”

  She pressed on before Gwen could formulate a response. “And how did you get through a locked door – a pair of locked doors?”

  Her eyes brightened. “You’re the Royal Sorceress!”

  “That is absurd, My Lady,” Gwen pointed out, knowing, even as she said it, that her denial was futile. Raechel was an admirer of the Trouser Brigade, a trend Gwen had accidentally inspired. She tugged at her dress.

  “Why would the Royal Sorceress pose as a maid?”

  “Because you’re on a mission, just like that Scotswoman who saved Bonnie Prince Charlie from the soldiers chasing him,” Raechel said. She smiled, brightly. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  Gwen sighed, then held out a hand. A moment later, Raechel’s hairbrush flew across the room and landed in her palm. Raechel stared, then started to laugh hysterically, despite the implicit threat.

  “I wish you were here as yourself,” Raechel said. “We have so much to talk about.”

  “And we will, once we get home,” Gwen said. Lord Mycroft had been right. Given some proper training, Raechel might be very useful indeed. She was clearly observant enough to notice that there were quite a few holes in Gwen’s cover. “But, for the moment, I need you to behave.”

  “Do I have magic?” Raechel asked. “Is there a way you can test for it?”

  Gwen shrugged. She’d never been very good at sensing the presence of magicians who had yet to develop their powers. It was possible Raechel had magic, but equally possible that she was simply observant and quick-witted. But that was beside the point right now.

  “I need you to behave,” Gwen repeated. “Your Aunt cannot be allowed to know who I am, nor can anyone else. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” She smacked the hairbrush into her palm to underline her words. “If you do as you’re told and help me, I’ll help you once we get back to London,” she added. “But if you don’t, I’ll see to it that you regret it.”

  Raechel smiled. “How? My Aunt already tried beating me, you know.”

  “I can make you stay in your room,” Gwen snapped. “And, when you get home, you can keep going to hell, if you like.” She took a breath. “Get undressed,” she added. “You need to look reasonably presentable before High Tea.”

  Raechel giggled. “The Royal Sorceress is going to help me dress?”

  “The Royal Sorceress has to remain as your maid,” Gwen said. She drew on her magic, tugging on Raechel’s clothes. “And heaven help you if you betray her.”

  She sighed as Raechel started to undress. What would Sir Sidney have to say?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Olivia ate her way through her breakfast – she’d lost weight over the past week, despite being fed increasingly larger portions of odd-tasting food – waited for Esther to take the tray away and then lay back on her bed, closing her eyes. The whispering, which was a constant presence at the back of her mind, suddenly grew louder. This time, she tried to focus on one particular voice and bring it into her mind.

  The whispering seemed to grow stronger, but she couldn’t make out what it was saying to her – or if it was saying anything at all. But the cravings, on the other hand, were alarmingly strong and powerful. The undead wanted to kill, to eat, to spread themselves as far as possible and they wanted to use her to do it. She forced herself to maintain contact, as they seemed to reach for her, trying to take control of one of the undead. There was a sudden shift in her mind and she found herself looking out through a new pair of eyes.

  She cringed, mentally, as the creature’s desires assailed her. Its thinking seemed to be the sum of its cravings, rather than anything she might recognise as thoughts, but it also seemed to have a very strange level of intelligence. The Russians had practically crucified it, driving nails through its arms and legs to pin it in place, yet it was always testing the limits of its bonds, seeking a way to break free. Its eyesight was strange; the handful of men and women in front of her were glowing with light, while everything else was a dark shadowy grey. It was barely even able to see the walls of the prison cell.

  They can’t see as well as living humans, she realised, numbly. But why don’t they have any problems seeing in the dark?

  She pushed the thought aside as she watched, through the creature’s eyes, as one of the Russians came up to it and started trying to extract some blood. There was no feeling, not even a hint of pain, as the Russian started to work. It was clear that the undead felt nothing when they were wounded, even though half of them shouldn’t even be able to move after having their bones broken. Whatever unholy force drove them onwards was terrifyingly capable. But how did it even work?

  The Russian stepped back, holding a bottle of ... something. Olivia wasn’t sure if the undead even had blood. How could they have blood pumping through their bodies when their hearts no longer beat with life? The undead creature turned its head, just in time for the Russians to wheel in another trolley. A man was strapped to the top, stark naked. The Russian researchers surrounded him, muttering in words she couldn’t understand to one another. Moments later, the researcher with the bottle of dead fluids used a needle to inject them into the
living victim’s body.

  Olivia watched, with a kind of fascinated horror, as the victim twitched alarmingly, pulling at his metal bonds hard enough to break bones, then fell to the table, dead. For a long moment, she feared that the injection would be enough to make the corpse rise again, but it was clear that it was insufficient. Moments later, the Russians came to the same conclusion. The body was wheeled out, the researchers returned to poking and prodding at the undead creature and Olivia let go of her grip on its mind. Almost immediately, she found herself in the mind of another undead. This time, it was standing inside a cage, watching with cold intent as its guards pushed a woman into the cage. The woman had been badly beaten, blood flowing from her face, but she started to scream and fight as soon as she saw the undead. But it did her no good. The guards shoved her forward and slammed the cage door shut behind her.

  The surge of sudden hunger caught Olivia by surprise. Before she could try to stop the undead creature, it was on the woman, biting into her neck. Blood flowed into its body, bringing with it a surge of life energy that sent it jumping forward to slam against the bars of the cage. The guards lifted their weapons as the undead reached through the bars, grasping for them, but they were well out of reach. Behind it, Olivia was suddenly aware of the woman joining the ranks of the undead. They moaned ...

  Olivia shuddered as she snapped back to her own body. The moan wasn’t just a sound, she understood now; the moan was their collective intelligence taking on shape and form. Each individual undead creature was nothing more than an animal guided by animal instincts, but collectively they were formidably intelligent. Even two of them together were smarter than the average dog. A small army of them would be smart enough to operate ships and even airships. They’d spread around the entire world.

  Olivia looked down at her shaking hands, then forced herself back into the undead mindset. This time, she found herself looking up at Gregory from the perspective of yet another undead monster. She ordered the creature to lunge for him and it obeyed, her thoughts sinking into whatever passed for a mind and overriding it, but it couldn’t even begin to reach him. The Russians had chained the creature so firmly that any attempt to break free would cripple it, probably destroying whatever force held it together. Gregory didn’t even take a step backwards as the creature relaxed, waiting.

  A minute later, a young man walked into the room, wearing nothing more than a pair of shorts, despite the cold. As Olivia watched in disbelief, he knelt down in front of Gregory, his hands touching the stone floor. Gregory touched the man’s forehead, then began to speak rapidly in an unfamiliar language. Once the brief ceremony was over, the young man rose to his feet and walked up to the creature, holding one hand out for the undead creature to bite.

  Olivia tried to stop it, but the undead creature’s lust was too strong. It bit hard, draining the young man’s life into its body. The young man screamed, looking down at his hand. This time, watching through the undead eyes, Olivia could see something black and unpleasant making its way through the man’s body. Gregory stepped forward, pressed his hand against the bitten hand, then started to use his powers. Olivia stared, too transfixed to do anything, as the Healer struggled to counteract the undead bite. But it wasn’t enough to save the young man from becoming one of the undead.

  Gregory stepped backwards and signalled to the guards. They ran forward, swords drawn, and sliced the young man apart. Gregory watched, his face dispassionate, as the researchers picked up the remains of the body, then he rubbed his fingers together with glee. Clearly, he thought the experiment hadn’t been a complete failure. But Olivia honestly couldn’t understand why.

  She jerked suddenly as a sound burst into her mind, then realised that someone was tapping the door ... no, someone was slapping her face. Her thoughts exploded back into her own body; she was suddenly very aware of Ivan leaning over her, his dark eyes worried and unaccountably nervous. Or perhaps, she thought as she realised her cheek was stinging badly, he had a very good reason to be worried. She was in his care, after all, and if something happened to her he could expect to be thrown to the undead. Or maybe, as he was a Charmer, his tongue would be pulled out of his mouth and then he would be thrown to the undead.

  “Ouch,” she said, plaintively. One hand moved to rub her cheek. “What happened?”

  “I’ve been trying to wake you for the last ten minutes,” Ivan said. He sounded worried too. “What happened to you?”

  “I don’t know,” Olivia lied. “Perhaps I just used my powers too much and needed to rest.”

  “Perhaps,” Ivan agreed. He helped her sit up, then passed her a glass of water. “How much practice have you had with your powers?”

  “Almost none,” Olivia said. She didn’t want to go into details. “And you?”

  Ivan smirked. Olivia sighed, inwardly. If he was anything like the other Charmers, he’d probably come into his powers gradually, maybe not even realising that he had powers until he pushed someone well over the line. From what Gwen had said about Lord Blackburn, many magicians and non-magicians had been very relieved when they discovered he’d fled to Turkey. And to think he might not even be the worst of the Charmers.

  “Tell me about yourself,” Olivia said. Men loved to talk about themselves, particularly to a pretty girl. It was one of the more practical pieces of man-management she’d learned at Cavendish Hall, even if most of the girls there had been silly pieces of fluff. She tried to bat her eyelashes at him as she spoke. “Where were you born?”

  Ivan smiled at her, rather sardonically. It was clear she hadn’t mastered how to bat her eyelashes seductively. But he answered her anyway.

  “I was the youngest son of a nobleman in Russia,” he said. “My father preferred being out on the farm to being anywhere near St Petersburg, so naturally I went there as soon as possible, just to get away from him. I ... disliked my father intensely.”

  Olivia frowned. She had no idea who her father had been and her mother had died when she was six, barely old enough to take care of herself on the streets. If she hadn’t had some help from her mother’s old friends, she wouldn’t have survived the year. As it was, she knew she wouldn’t have lasted much longer if she hadn’t encountered Jack and Gwen. Gwen was her mother, legally speaking, but it wasn’t the same. How could someone just discard his own father?

  “You never knew him,” Ivan said, correctly interpreting Olivia’s expression. “My father was a very unpleasant man. He beat my mother until she died, sent my sister into an unwanted marriage, beat me ... whipped the serfs on his farm for the slightest infraction, had fun with their women ... I haven’t seen him in years. And I am much happier without him.”

  “I’m sorry,” Olivia said, although she wasn’t sure what she was actually being sorry for. If she’d had a real family, she wouldn’t have given it up so easily. “How did you discover your powers?”

  “One of the Skoptzi noticed me,” Ivan said. “He took me to his master, who invited me to serve the Father Tsar as his agent. I had no choice.”

  Olivia nodded in understanding. The Royal Sorcerers Corps conscripted powerful magicians, regardless of their social origins, or killed them if they refused to cooperate. These days, the magical underground was almost completely dormant. Between Jack’s willingness to use them and Gwen’s offer to take anyone who was prepared to work with her, there was no longer any need for a separate organisation. And the farms were long gone.

  “You were a Charmer,” she said. “What did they have you do?”

  “I can’t talk about it,” Ivan said. He shook his head, ruefully. “You don’t want to know just how much I have done for the Father Tsar.”

  Olivia took a breath, wondering if she was about to be slapped again. “Do you worship the Father Tsar?”

  Ivan eyed her for a long moment. “I’ve seen him at Court,” he said. “The Father Tsar is just a man.”

  Olivia hesitated, then pushed onwards. “Do the Skoptzi” – she stumbled over the Russian word – “
have any real idea just how dangerous their experiments actually are?”

  “I believe they think they have no choice,” Ivan said, carefully. He studied her, dispassionately. “My uncle’s manor was burned to the ground only four weeks ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Olivia lied. “What happened?”

  “His serfs revolted and attacked him,” Ivan said. The pain in his voice surprised her. “The revolt spread to a dozen other serf-run farms, sending hundreds of aristocrats fleeing for their lives. There were reports of women – and even men – being raped by serfs, trampled by animals, then abandoned to die on the frozen ground. Hundreds of years of work torched overnight and left as ashes.”

  Olivia found it hard to feel sorry for the noblemen of Russia. She’d heard similar lamentations during the Swing, when a handful of aristocratic women had been raped during the worst hours of the uprising. Such accounts rarely included the harassment of female servants or even several rapes carried out by soldiers counterattacking against the rebels. If the Duke of India hadn’t been in charge, it would have been considerably worse. Somehow, she doubted whoever was in charge of the military force sent to restore order in Russia would be so considerate as to hang any rapists among his troops.

  But she knew better than to say it out loud. Unlike almost anyone else at Cavendish Hall, certainly among the girls, she’d been born in the gutters. She’d lived the life of the very poor, then the life of the very wealthy ... and knew just how lucky she’d been. God alone knew how many girls, very much like her, hadn’t been so fortunate. But none of the other girls at Cavendish Hall had her experience. They would weep and moan for hours over a dead horse, yet they wouldn’t see the blighted lives of the very poor. It was an alien and invisible world to them.

  “One revolt isn’t a major problem,” she said, instead. “Surely you can restore order quickly.”

  “It isn’t just one,” Ivan said. Oddly, saying as much as he already had seemed to unlock the floodgates, allowing him to talk openly. “There have been revolts over the past five years as the weather has worsened, some in the countryside and some in the cities. I saw a mutiny in a Guards Regiment outside St Petersburg herself, while several warships mutinied against their commanders and set sail for the outside world. In Court, powerful factions are gathering around the different princes, each one promising a different solution to the country’s woes.”