The Great Game (Royal Sorceress)

by Nuttall, Christopher

  “Certainly not in less than six moves,” Lord Mycroft said. He quirked an eyebrow at her as he swung the chessboard around until the white pieces were in front of Gwen. “The long-term is what matters. Master Thomas was Royal Sorcerer for sixty years. You might hold the post as long...”

  Gwen privately doubted it. Master Thomas had remained remarkably spry for a ancient man, to the point where Doctor Norwell had wondered if he’d been subconsciously Healing himself all along, but he’d been... well, a man. And he’d had no replacement in sight, until he’d turned, out of desperation, to Gwen. She had a private suspicion that if another Master Magician – a male Master Magician – happened to show up, she would be pushed into resigning by the Royal Committee. None of them, even the more forward-thinking, were comfortable taking orders from a young girl.

  “... And, in any case, the Empire will be here long after we are both dead,” Lord Mycroft continued, seemingly unaware of her thoughts. “We must ensure that we do not sacrifice long-term security for short-term gratification.”

  He tapped the board, meaningfully. “Would you like to play?”

  Gwen had to smile. Chess was not considered a ladylike game; certainly, none of the truly great players in London were female. But then, magic wasn’t very feminine either. And her brother had taught her how to play, years ago.

  “Too tired,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. David had been good, but Lord Mycroft was an absolutely brilliant player. He would be. Even refreshed, Gwen doubted that she could manage anything more than a brave showing before he swept her pieces off the board. “And I have to be up early tomorrow.”

  “Indeed,” Lord Mycroft said. He looked up, his sharp eyes suddenly meeting hers. “And do you want to go to the ceremony tomorrow?”

  Gwen refused to look away, even through his gaze was piercing. “I believe that I have no choice,” she said, icily. She didn’t want to go at all. “We are going to be telling the entire world a lie.”

  “We all have to do things we hate,” Lord Mycroft reminded her, coldly. “Telling a lie, as you put it, is far preferable to the... problems we would face if the truth came out. And our political system, even reformed, could not survive the explosion. It would shatter the Empire and leave us vulnerable to our enemies. The truth can remain buried for centuries.”

  “Lost in the files,” Gwen commented, sarcastically. One of the things she’d discovered while doing the paperwork only the Royal Sorcerer could do was that the government was very good at losing things. They were written down and then buried in the files, where they could be safely forgotten about. “And what happens when it comes out?”

  “By then, one way or the other, it shouldn’t matter,” Lord Mycroft assured her. “But believe me, your... detractors are facing the same problem.”

  Gwen snorted. Her detractors, on and off the Royal Committee, only had to put up with a seventeen-year-old girl holding the most important position in the British Empire. She had to tell a lie... and then do whatever it took to maintain that lie, knowing that the consequences of the truth coming out would be worse. And if her detractors, the ones who didn’t know who’d issued the original orders, ever found out that she’d lied, they would claim that it was yet another reason why a girl could never hold a position of responsibility. How could they trust a known liar? The fact that male politicians lied all the time wouldn’t bother them in the slightest.

  “And many of them are trying to cope with the Trouser Brigade,” he added. His lips formed, very briefly, a smile. “They hate that too.”

  “And blame me for it,” Gwen said. “And for once they’re even right.”

  There was no way she could fight in the long dresses that had been fashionable for Young Women of a Certain Age and Martial Status, even if the Royal Committee had been prepared to listen to people in skirts. Instead, she’d had a dressmaker prepare an outfit for her that was almost identical to Master Thomas’s suit, complete with trousers and top hat. The only real change had been some tailoring to fit the female form...

  Gwen had never considered herself either a setter or a follower of fashion. Lady Mary, Gwen’s mother, worked hard to keep up with the latest fashions, but Gwen had never been interested in following her mother down that path. Now, however, she had set a new fashion. Upper-class women were walking around in trousers and shirts, looking for all the world as if they were dressing up as their fathers. The staunchly-conservative sections of society were horrified, but their quiet – and sometimes not so quiet – disapproval had failed to halt the trend. Indeed, it had only given it momentum.

  Not that it was entirely useless, Gwen considered. Many of the upper-class women wanted to do something useful besides marrying and giving birth to the next generation of aristocrats. It was customary for many wealthy women to become involved with charity work, but the trouser brigade had taken it one step further and actually gone to work. A surprising number of them had even gone into the hospitals that Gwen had helped establish for the poor. Their future husbands would have heart attacks when they found out.

  “The older you are, the harder it is to accept that the world is changing,” Lord Mycroft said. “And there is a strong impulse to simply dig one’s heels in and refuse to tolerate even the merest change. Give them time.”

  Gwen snorted. “How much time?”

  The Swing had ensured that all males over twenty-one got the vote. It hadn’t extended the same right to women, something the trouser brigade found hideously offensive. They’d started campaigning at once, demanding enfranchisement... Gwen had no idea where that would end up. She’d felt nothing but contempt for women like her mother, who were quite happy to leave such matters to the men, yet she had no idea if women would be wiser when it came to voting properly. How could someone whose main interest lay in dominating the social scene be trusted to direct the country’s future? But then, similar arguments had been used against granting all men the vote. Where did one draw the line?

  “Enough,” Lord Mycroft said. He rose to his feet and half-bowed to her. “You have done well today, even if it will cause political problems. But we can come to some agreement with their families.”

  Gwen scowled as she stood up. No doubt the members of the Worshipful Order of Ancient Wisdom would be given slaps on the wrist, although she trusted Lord Mycroft to ensure that they had a scare before they were allowed to go. They’d come within inches of murdering a young girl...

  “Just make sure they stay out of politics,” Gwen advised. “And I’ll see you at the ceremony tomorrow.”

  “I will not be at the ceremony,” Lord Mycroft admitted. “However, the Duke is looking forward to seeing you, I believe. He is quite grateful for some of your innovations.”

  Gwen nodded. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised that Lord Mycroft wouldn’t be coming to the ceremony. The last thing that had caused him to alter his daily routine had been an armed uprising in the centre of London. But the reminder that the Duke of India, the Prime Minister of Great Britain and her Empire, was on her side made her smile. Not every older man saw her as a threat to their position, or as a silly girl playing with forces she didn’t understand.

  No, she thought, as she turned to leave. Just most of them.

  Chapter Three

  Lady Gwen?”

  Gwen swallowed a very unladylike curse as she opened her eyes. She’d asked Martha to wake her at seven o’clock – the ceremony was meant to be at ten – but right now she just wanted to go back to sleep. Her maid peered at her nervously, one hand carrying a steaming mug of imported coffee. Even after several months, Martha was still unsure of her position in Cavendish Hall.

  “I’m awake,” Gwen muttered. The temptation to just skip the ceremony was overpowering; she had to grit her teeth and push it aside. “Put the coffee on the table and then run me a bath.”

  “Already done,” Martha assured her, wryly. “You must have been sleeping like a log.”

  Gwen nodded. She should have gone to bed as soon as
she returned to Cavendish Hall, but she’d had to write a quick report for the files. It had been past midnight when she’d finally entered her rooms and collapsed on the bed, without even bothering to get undressed. Her suit, unsurprisingly, felt uncomfortable and filthy.

  “Thank you,” she said, remembering her manners. She’d scared too many servants away when they’d realised that she’d had magic, even as a young girl. “Please remind Olivia that she doesn’t have to attend the ceremony.”

  She watched her maid go and then took a sip of the coffee. It tasted unpleasant, but she had to admit that it woke her up properly. Master Thomas had introduced her to it, claiming that it would one day replace tea as the foremost drink in the British Empire. Gwen had her doubts. It just tasted vile.

  Shaking her head, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Master Thomas had set up the suite for himself, years ago; Gwen was still privately amazed that Cavendish Hall had largely survived the Swing, rather than being burned to the ground. Her best guess was that Jack had felt sentimental, which seemed unlikely. His memories of Cavendish Hall would have been tainted by the truth of his own origins. Or maybe he’d planned to assimilate all the knowledge stored within the Hall before destroying it.

  One advantage of wearing a suit, Gwen had decided long ago, was that it was considerably easier to take off than the formal dresses most girls were required to wear. The trouser brigade probably agreed. Pulling off the suit and placing it in the basket for the maids to collect for cleaning, she walked into the bathroom and looked down at the tub. Hot and cold running water was a feature of stately homes in London – and running water would be made available to everyone, once the pipes were in place – but she had no hot water. Master Thomas had told her that it was an excellent test for young Blazers. It was difficult to harm oneself with one’s own magic, yet if the Blazer happened to overheat the water he’d burn himself. Gwen had learned rapidly to be very careful when heating her own water.

  “Pain is the great teacher,” Master Thomas had said, the first time she’d burned herself. “And why didn’t you think to put in more cold water?”

  Gwen flushed at the memory as she climbed into the tub and relaxed, allowing the water to cleanse her skin. Magic was so useful that it was difficult to realise that it had limitations, at least until the magician came face to face with them. Or, for that matter, that not thinking could have disastrous consequences. One young Blazer had tried to heat the water while he was in the bath. If Lucy hadn’t been in the building he would have died before anyone could save his life.

  It was tempting just to close her eyes and sleep, but there was no time. Instead, she pulled herself out of the bath and used a towel to dry her body. Martha knew better than to touch the suits she’d left in the wardrobe, but she’d laid out a set of underclothes on the bed. Gwen sighed as she pulled them on, followed by another suit, practically identical to the one she’d slept in. She didn’t have the time or the inclination to design other suits for herself.

  Besides, she thought sourly, the dressmakers would be happy to design them for me, just so they could say that I was one of their customers.

  Pushing the thought aside, she stepped out of her suite and walked down towards the dining hall. Months – it felt like years – ago, she’d had a food fight with some of the young male apprentices, back before the Swing. They’d been offended by the mere thought of a female joining the Royal Sorcerers Corps, let alone that she was Master Thomas’s apprentice. Now... some of them were dead, killed in the Swing, or promoted upwards. There was less time for fun.

  Not that you thought it was fun at the time, she reminded herself, as she sat down at the High Table, reserved for the Senior Magicians. Even the youngest of them was ten years older than Gwen herself – and he’d spent most of his life in India, before being brought back to Britain to fill a dead man’s shoes.

  The hall was almost empty, save for a handful of students who would be spending the day desperately cramming for their exams. Gwen had brought in a number of students from lower-class backgrounds, attempting to replace the sorcerers who had died in the fighting. Unfortunately, they rarely knew how to read or write, let alone the basics that every upper-class pupil was expected to know. Tutoring them was an additional expense, but one Gwen thought would be worthwhile. Not everyone agreed.

  She accepted a plate of bacon and eggs from one of the servants and started to eat. No one was quite sure of the relationship between magic and food, but almost every magician found himself hungry after working magic – and it was very rare to see a fat magician. Gwen ate more than her mother ever had and yet she was almost painfully thin. Or perhaps it was the physical exercise. Master Thomas had been a keen believer in that too.

  “Lady Gwen,” a voice said. “Good morning to you.”

  Gwen nodded politely as Sir James Braddock sat down next to her. He was a tall man, handsome in a bland kind of way, with short blonde hair and a strong chin that would probably have sent her mother into fits of delight. A strong chin, she’d once claimed, was the mark of a true hero. If she’d been there, she would probably have encouraged Gwen to marry Sir James, even though he was ten years older than her. Sir James was a true hero. Everyone said so.

  “Why, Sir James,” she said, tightly. “Is it not a positively delightful morning?”

  It wasn’t really Sir James’s fault, but she resented his presence – and that of the rest of his team. The Royal Committee had recalled Merlin – the Empire’s foremost team of combat magicians – from India after the Swing, in hopes of using them to replace Master Thomas. Gwen couldn’t argue with the logic, but she suspected that they’d seen it as a way to express their lack of confidence in her, no matter how they managed to justify it publicly.

  And besides, Sir James could irritate her at times.

  Which makes him better than most of the Royal Committee, she told herself, sharply. They manage to irritate you all the time.

  “We’re being tapped to provide security for the ceremony,” Sir James said, as if Gwen didn’t already know that. She’d signed the papers personally, after reading them carefully. “And I understand that the Duke of India wishes to talk with us afterwards.”

  “Maybe,” Gwen said. Master Thomas’s death had opened up a great many possibilities, particularly for those in power who thought that the Royal Sorcerers Corps had been allowed too much independence for too long. “But you will attend the other ceremony.”

  Sir James looked at her sharply, then nodded. At least he didn’t seem inclined to complain to her face, although God knew how he talked about her behind her back. Gwen had ended up sacking one prominent Blazer outright after he’d stepped well over the line, which had earned her more enemies – and a persistent critic who wrote a new letter to The Times every week. She couldn’t understand why the newspaper kept publishing them.

  They finished breakfast in silence. Several of the other senior magicians, the ones who didn’t live in Cavendish Hall, would be making their own way to the ceremony. Gwen was silently grateful for that, even though Master Thomas would have had them all coming to Cavendish Hall first, just so they could show their respect. At least she wouldn’t have to put up with their company in the carriage.

  “I’ll see you at the ceremony,” she said, as she stood up. “And remember – try not to start a fight with any of the former rebels.”

  She saw Sir James scowl – and, briefly, allowed herself a moment of amusement. The general amnesty that had followed the end of the Swing hadn’t sat well with most of the more conservative members of the aristocracy, who would have preferred to ensure that anyone who dared raise a hand against them had it cut off. There had been no choice – even if the Redcoats had eventually crushed the rebellion, it would have devastated much of Britain – but they didn’t really believe that. They’d been in power for too long.

  “I won’t,” he promised.

  Gwen would have preferred to fly to Soho under her own power. But it wou
ld have been far too undignified for the Royal Sorceress. Instead, she rode in a carriage that at least allowed her some privacy – and a chance to get her feelings in order. It had been six months since she had last set foot in Soho, during the height of the Swing. Since then, the area had been burned to the ground – rebels and Redcoats working in harmony, for the first and probably the last time – and every last undead monster had been destroyed. Or so they hoped. The undead were a puzzle, even to theoretical magicians like Doctor Norwell. They shouldn’t have managed to ‘live’ and shamble around, let alone spread like a virus.

  There were already massive crowds waiting patiently as the carriage pulled up beside the others. Gwen climbed out without the help of the coachman and looked around, unable to avoid noticing how many of London’s great unwashed had come to see the ceremony. After all, it was theirs as much as it belonged to the upper classes – although neither side really knew the truth about what had happened in Soho. She caught sight of a handful of aristocrats she knew and allowed herself another brief moment of humour. They looked as if they wanted to hold their noses but didn’t quite dare.

  Soho had been abandoned after the first Cholera outbreak had killed thousands of civilians, something that – in hindsight – should have warned people that the government had an interest in leaving it that way. They’d used the rotting disease-ridden buildings to conceal a great secret, one that had come far too close to destroying London utterly. And Gwen was one of a very few people who knew the truth.

  These days, Soho had become a garden. The greatest landscape artists and sculptors of the Empire had competed to turn the remains of the district into a fitting monument for two heroes; Master Thomas and Jack. Gwen rolled her eyes as she saw the two statues, towering over the humans thronging through the park. Master Thomas might have looked that dignified in real life – he’d certainly been the most dignified man Gwen had ever met – but Jack had never had so many muscles on his arms. The sculptor had placed him in working class clothes, reminding everyone that Jack had chosen to fight for the poor.