The Great Game (Royal Sorceress)

by Nuttall, Christopher

  The official version of the story blamed everything on France. But then, it was easy to convince the British public that the French were behind every last problem that beset the British Empire. After all, if the French could do something as diabolical as sending a monkey to spy on Hartlepool, who knew what else they could do? They would certainly have no difficulty manipulating Jack and Master Thomas into going to war with one another... and then unleashing the revenants to ensure that London was completely destroyed. Yes, everything could be blamed on the French.

  Gwen looked up at the statues, shaking her head slowly. What would the adoring public, rich and poor, say if they ever found out the truth? Master Thomas had unleashed the revenants at the command of the British Government, hoping to ensure that the Swing was terminated before it was too late to save the Empire. He and Jack hadn’t allied to fight the revenants; Master Thomas had commanded the small army of undead monsters. And Gwen herself... the official version had her bridging the gap between the two men. No one knew that she’d effectively betrayed her tutor to stop him from wiping out the entire city.

  Perhaps it is better that way, she thought.

  But she couldn’t help thinking that it was likely to come back to haunt them sooner or later.

  Someone was burning a French flag in the crowd, waving the flaming cloth around to general amusement. The downside of the official story was that it encouraged hatred and rage towards the French – and made people wonder why the British Empire hadn’t declared war. And the French, knowing perfectly well that the revenants hadn’t been their fault, were protesting their innocence loudly to anyone who would listen to them...

  “Lady Gwen,” one of the organisers said. “If you would care to join the Duke of India...”

  Gwen nodded and allowed him to lead her to the stage. The Duke of India – the man who’d conquered the subcontinent, opening up a whole new world for the Empire – was a tough man, dedicated to his profession. Being Prime Minister didn’t agree with him, but he’d been the one man that King, Parliament and the public had been able to agree on. Gwen had heard that he was actually very popular among his troops, even if he swore like a navvy half the time. If nothing else, he enlivened Cabinet proceedings with his bluntly expressed view of the world.

  He nodded to Gwen as she sat down beside him. “I wanted to thank you for the additional Talkers and Seers for the army,” he said, without preamble. “They will make future deployments considerably easier to control, even if they do also make it easier for people to look over the commander’s shoulder.”

  Gwen nodded, knowing just how the Generals and Admirals must feel. But they were better off, surely? The old days, when a squadron could be sent out on a mission and no one would know what had happened for weeks or months afterwards, were gone. Now, ships could be directed from place to place as easily as a man could order dinner. The days of command independence were also gone – and she knew that the commanders resented it. How could someone in London truly understand the situation on the ground?

  “I’m glad you took them,” she said, honestly. The Duke of India was one of the few who didn’t care about her sex, or her age. He saw the world in terms of people who were useful and those who weren’t. As long as he considered Gwen useful, he wouldn’t turn on her, or support her enemies. “Convincing the Corps to accept lower-class magicians was difficult.”

  “There are no such thing as bad men, merely bad officers,” the Duke grunted. He’d led an army made up of men recruited from the dregs of society, honing them until they were a shining rapier in his hand. The Kings and Maharajahs of India hadn’t known what had hit them until it was far too late. “And magicians are too useful to turn down.”

  He cleared his throat as silence fell over the crowd. “I must speak,” he said, crossly. He disliked public speaking at the best of times. “We’ll talk later about future deployments. Thomas was fond of giving advice, even when unasked. You need to give advice yourself.”

  Gwen nodded inwardly as the Duke rose to his feet and stamped over to the podium. At least she wasn’t being called upon to speak. Royal Sorceress or not, the only women who spoke in public were those of the trouser brigade – or very upper-class women, trying to convince their fellows to give money to their charity. Very few women would ever speak to a crowd composed mainly of the lower orders. Why, they might be exposed to bad language. Or the savage nature of those raised without perfect breeding and manners.

  She gritted her teeth as she caught sight of Colonel Sebastian in the crowd, his gaze fixed on her face. Sebastian hated her, although she wasn’t sure if it was because of her sex, her age or because he thought that he should have been Royal Sorcerer. Certainly, reading between the lines of his letters to various newspapers, she thought it was the latter. But Sebastian was not a Master Magician and could never have filled Master Thomas’s shoes.

  And besides, she thought, he would just have restarted the Swing.

  She leaned back in her chair and tried to relax. The ceremony might have been based on a lie, but was important – and yet it wasn’t as important as the second ceremony, the one she’d arranged herself, insisting that most of the senior magicians attend, no matter what other commitments they had. They’d complain, loudly, but she had the authority, at least on paper, to compel them to attend.

  And if they refused, she would not forget.

  Or forgive.

  Chapter Four

  The house sat within a garden, behind a solid brick wall topped with iron spikes. Gwen had taken a look at them, when she’d first visited the building, and decided that they made escape almost impossible. The building didn’t look like a prison – from the outside, it looked like just another large house bought by a family that was going up in the world – but it was a prison, in all but name. Those who lived and died within its walls had no hope of escape.

  Gwen walked through the gates and stopped in front of the small crowd of senior magicians. Apart from Lucy, who was standing to one side with a grim expression on her face, they were all male – and none of them seemed willing to meet her gaze. There were truths that a properly brought up young lady wasn’t supposed to know – and the existence of the building, and the others like it, was one of them. It still shocked Gwen, sometimes, to realise just how ignorant she’d been, even though she’d been better read that most of her peers. And theoretical knowledge was nothing like genuine experience.

  Good, she thought. They’re all here.

  Sir James looked thoroughly uncomfortable as her gaze swept over him and his comrade, Peter Wise. Gwen had never asked if Sir James had known about the farms – she hadn’t wanted to know – but she suspected that he had. A Mover so powerful would not have been allowed to risk his life in India without siring a few children first. The fact that most of the women within the farms had been there against their will might not have bothered him as much as it should have done. After all, they weren’t upper-class women.

  Beside him, Bruno Lombardi kept his gaze firmly fixed on the ground. Gwen knew that he had been to the farms before his marriage – and that he might still be going there, if Gwen hadn’t shut the whole program down. She would have preferred to promote the shy Italian to a position on the Royal Committee – at least he didn’t seem inclined to give her trouble over her sex – but it was unthinkable. An Italian, even an Italian in exile, was not to be promoted over the heads of British citizens. Besides, with the French firmly in control of much of Italy and the Pope a prisoner in the Vatican, it might have been unwise. Who knew what Lombardi would do if they found a way to pressure him?

  Lord Henry Brockton looked back at her, his face tightly controlled. He hadn’t made any secret of his disdain for her, even though he was more polite about it than his former superior, Colonel Sebastian. Gwen found him a constant trial, even though he never quite crossed the line that would allow her to fire him. Besides, he was experienced and dedicated to the Corps – and a war hero, as evidenced by the scar crossing his swarth
y face. His service in Ireland was unimpeachable.

  Gwen kept her face under control herself as she met Earl Jason Amherst’s eyes. He was a tall thin man, with the same supercilious expression all Charmers seemed to share – and the awareness that he could talk anyone into anything, given enough time. Gwen distrusted him, at least partly because he was related to Lord Blackburn, who’d had the same general attitude. The Darwinists had been keeping their heads down over the past six months, but she was sure she knew who led them now. Even if he hadn’t been unfortunate in his choice of relations, she wouldn’t have trusted him anyway. Charmers were never trusted.

  Finally, her gaze found Doctor Norwell. “Well,” she said, into the silence. “I trust that everything is ready?”

  Doctor Norwell nodded. As a theoretical magician, he could never hope to hold a high position in the Royal Sorcerers Corps, but he’d helped to expand the theoretical underpinnings of magic. And he’d been one of Gwen’s tutors... she doubted that he coped well with her sudden promotion; indeed, he had better reason to resent her than anyone else in the Royal College.

  Life isn’t fair, she reminded herself, coldly.

  No one was quite sure who’d been behind the farms. Gwen had been tempted to blame it all on Lord Blackburn, but the Charmer had been thirty-two when he’d fled the country and the farms had been in existence for much longer. The files, which were normally thorough and detailed, were vague on that point... unless Doctor Norwell had seen fit to destroy some of them rather than give the files to Gwen. She could only wonder if it had been Master Thomas, or one of the long-dead Masters, or someone else. And if that person was still around...

  She pushed the thought aside and cleared her throat.

  “Years ago,” she said, in the blunt matter she’d learned from the Duke of India, “the Royal Sorcerers Corps, desperate for manpower, started to commit a series of crimes. Young male magicians, born to poor families, were taken away for adoption. Their mothers and fathers – and their sisters – were taken to buildings like this one, where they were turned into baby machines. They were raped” – she smiled at their reaction to a word upper-class women were not supposed to know, let alone understand – “until they became pregnant. If their children happened to be male, they were adopted by trusted couples and brought up as upper-class magicians. If they were female, they were used to further the breeding program.

  “The program’s value was very limited,” she added. “Of all the children... produced, only a quarter of them became magicians. And only one of them, despite much enthusiasm, became a Master.”

  Jack had known, Gwen knew. He’d come from the farms – and it had been discovering the truth of his origins that had driven him away from his mentor. It was quite possible, although no one knew for sure, that he’d even been Master Thomas’s son. Later, before the Swing had truly started, Jack had blown up one of the farms, along with everyone inside, the innocent as well as the guilty. Maybe he’d thought that he couldn’t get the girls out before Master Thomas arrived... or maybe he’d lashed out at the reminder of his own origins. There was no way to know for sure.

  “And the fact remains that it was a crime,” she said. “I chose to shut the program down because it was a ghastly reminder of just how far we could fall. We have enough magicians – and new ones coming – to no longer require the farms. I want you all to witness the end of this building.”

  She concealed her amusement at their expressions. Some of them – Brockton and Amherst, certainly – would have wanted her to go to the farms. If her father hadn’t been so well-connected, Gwen might well have ended up a prisoner herself, drugged to keep her docile while she produced child after child until her body gave out. Hell, there had been no need, according to the files, to kidnap children. Poor parents of magical kids would have been happy to take a few coins in exchange for never having to see their witch-touched children again.

  And besides, losing one child might allow them to keep the rest alive.

  She turned and walked towards the entrance. The heavy wooden door had been left ajar, allowing her to step inside without hindrance. Inside, everything of value had been stripped from the walls; they’d even taken the carpet from the floors. The building felt as if it had been abandoned years ago, rather than a mere four months. It had taken that long to organise the distribution of the surviving women and children from the farms.

  The clerks who managed finances for the Corps had complained about the cost. Giving each magician a stipend to keep them loyal wasn’t too big a drain, it seemed, but ensuring that every woman from the farms didn’t have to go onto the streets was too much. Gwen had eventually ended up adding funds from Master Thomas’s legacy to ensure that the girls were safe, even though she’d been warned that most of them would probably lose it quickly. And many children had been left orphaned... she’d had to arrange for their adoption too. They’d be the last of the farm generation.

  She stopped outside an opened door and peered into the room. It was bare, apart from a single bed in one corner. Manacles hung from each corner, ready to hold someone down if they resisted... some of the girls, she’d read in the files, had been particularly determined to escape, even after the drugs and beatings. The chains looked strong enough to hold an elephant.

  Bracing herself, she opened her mind...

  The images assailed her at once, blasting through her mind so powerfully that they drove her to her knees. They blurred together into a single liturgy of horror and torment; there were so many of them that she couldn’t pick out specific images. If she’d been a Sensitive, she might have been driven mad by the exposure... as it was, it took her several minutes to bring her mind back under control. No wonder that so many Sensitives, particularly those who developed their powers in isolation, ended up in Bedlam. They didn’t stand a chance.

  Damn you, she thought. A very unladylike word – and one her mother would have slapped her for using, if she’d said it in public. How could you do this to anyone?

  She walked through the rest of the building, keeping her mind tightly closed. Most of the beds had been abandoned, even the bedding, such as it was, had been left there. The women would have been permanently trapped, without even books to keep them distracted. She’d hated her life, hated the restrictions that being born female put on her, yet she’d been far luckier than the girls in the farm. They would have given their souls to trade places with her.

  Master Thomas had taught her to pay attention to small details. Something caught her eye as she glanced into the final room, drawing her towards the wall. Someone had chipped into the stone, bit by bit, a pair of names and a message. ALI AND PRU, 1827. GOD SAVE OUR SOULS. Gwen felt a lump in her throat as she stared down at the sole memento of two girls who had shared the room, both probably long dead by now, only remembered in the files. If they could write, no matter how badly, they might not have been lower class at all. Where had they come from?

  You can’t stay here, she told herself, angrily. The building was deserted. All that were left were the ghostly images burned into the surroundings, just waiting for a Sensitive to pick up.

  Carefully, feeling oddly unsteady, she walked back down to the lobby and closed her eyes, drawing on her magic. It swirled inside her, ready to be used, just like it had that day when she’d discovered that she was a magician. Even without knowing the basics, she’d managed to learn quite a bit on her own. Her ability to combine the different talents was remarkable, according to Master Thomas. But then, she had never truly realised that there were different talents.

  “Burn,” she whispered, opening her eyes.

  The air grew warmer around her as she projected her magic outwards. Wallpaper started to blacken, then catch fire; the wooden staircase began to glow with light as flames leapt up the banisters and crawled through the plaster covering the stone walls. And yet, Gwen kept pouring on the magic, until the stones themselves began to crack under the heat. A roaring holocaust started to rage through the house.

>   She drew on her magic again, forming a protective bubble around her body, and waited. The fire was completely out of control now, obliterating the scanty bedding and melting the metal beds into puddles of molten iron. A giant rafter crashed down from high overhead as the flames destroyed the buildings supports, followed rapidly by one of the storage chests that had held what food and drink were offered to the captive women. It was already blazing with eerie green and blue flames.

  Something must have been left inside, Gwen realised, as the staircase collapsed into a heap of flaming debris. She looked up, just in time to see cracks forming above her head as the ceiling started to follow the staircase into destruction. The flames grew brighter for a long second, then the ceiling caved in. Pieces of flaming debris bounced off Gwen’s protective bubble and crashed to the ground.

  She heard – or felt – a dull creak echoing through the house as one of the walls started to collapse. Moments later, large parts of the roof collapsed inwards, smashing through the remaining parts of the upper floor. Gwen saw, for one brief moment, a body, just before it vanished within the flames. She’d given orders that all of the bodies were to be destroyed – it was standard procedure to cremate the dead, now that necromancers could bring new life to rotting corpses – but one had clearly been missed. Or maybe it had just been very well hidden.

  There was a final crash as the rest of the roof fell in on her, landing on top of the protective bubble. Gwen kept her thoughts under tight control – panicking now would be disastrous – and altered the shape of her bubble. The rubble was pushed aside, allowing her to levitate herself up and out of the destroyed building. To the sorcerers outside, she had to look like an angel rising out of the flames.

  A Blazer could have destroyed the building, particularly if he was smart enough to realise that direct beams of magic would be less effective than making fire. A Mover could have protected himself and then escaped the holocaust. But Masters could use both powers – and so much more, besides. Whatever Colonel Sebastian might say, there was a very good reason why the Royal Sorcerer had to be a Master Magician.