The Great Game (Royal Sorceress)

by Nuttall, Christopher

  She stepped back and peered over at the portrait of George III on the wall. The King looked like he had in his youth, before the mental troubles that had eventually caused him to collapse into madness – a curse, some said, put on him by an American rebel. George had been the backer of Professor Cavendish when he’d been systematising magic, his redemption for his disastrous decision to dismiss Pitt the Elder years ago. If Pitt had remained Prime Minister, France would have been defeated so utterly that she would never have been able to challenge Britain again.

  “It’s behind the portrait,” Polly said, as she entered the room. “It took several days to install it properly.”

  Gwen nodded, running her hands down the side of the portrait until she found the lever. There was a click and the portrait swung open, revealing a metal safe blurred into the wall. A Changer had been involved, Gwen realised, as she studied his handiwork. It would be very difficult to hack it out of the stone and cart it off to open at leisure.

  “The key only worked for him,” Polly explained. “When he died, I think it was meant to stop working.”

  Gwen scowled. That was... odd, even in the most paranoid government departments. If someone died unexpectedly, there should be at least one other person with access to the safe – or the contents would be lost forever. Lestrade had left Sir Travis’s keys on the desk when he’d had the body removed, so Gwen used her magic to call them to her – Polly’s eyes went wide when she saw them flying through the air – and pushed the key into the safe. Nothing happened.

  For the key to work, it has to be held by the right person, she reminded herself. For the lock to work, it has to have the right key, which has to be activated in turn. And it can only be activated by one person. Very secure.

  “I think it did,” she said. There was no point in pressing the dead man’s hand against the key; the magic woven into the object wouldn’t recognise the corpse as its rightful owner. “I’m going to have to break into it.”

  “You can’t,” Polly objected. “The Master was very certain that no one could break in.”

  Gwen smiled. A Mover could have opened the safe – if he could see what he was doing, which the magic would render impossible. But a Mover and a Seer, working together... it wasn’t possible for anyone other than a Master Magician. And it would be difficult even for her.

  “Let me concentrate,” she said, pressing her hand against the safe and closing her eyes. The safe seemed to glow in her mind’s eye, warded with enough magic to make opening it a nightmare. Whoever had done the Infusing had done a very good job. “And don’t let anyone into the bedroom while I’m working.”

  She pushed her awareness towards the safe, wishing that she’d spent more time practising Seeing. It had its own dangers; like Sensitives, far too many Seers ended up in the madhouse when they lost control of their gifts. The safe looked oddly translucent in her mind’s eye, as if it wasn’t quite there. And it wasn’t, in a sense. She could send her awareness drifting right through it.

  Concentrate, she reminded herself, as she studied the lock. It was incredibly complex; if she hadn’t seen watchmakers at work, she would have suspected that magic had been used to build the mechanical side of the safe. The right key would open it; the wrong key would jam the lock permanently, if pushed too far. And the wrong sort of magic...

  She realised the danger in the next second. Someone had been very clever and woven enough magic into the safe to trigger a fire if a Seer got too close. Not a protective rune, created by an Infuser, but something more basic. Gwen cursed out loud – she heard Polly gasp at the language – and reached out desperately, trying to pull the magic out of the safe. It was reluctant to bend to her will, but she pulled at it until it snapped. The rush of energy tore through her body and flashed out, smashing against the far wall. Polly let out a cry of shock, which Gwen barely heard. Instead, she sucked in the remaining magic and turned the key again. This time, the safe opened effortlessly.

  “Lady Gwen,” a voice shouted. A strong hand grabbed her arm. “Are you all right?”

  Gwen nodded, although her legs felt uncomfortably wobbly. No normal magician could have done that – and Gwen had never even known that it was possible. Doctor Norwell would be pleased, she told herself crossly. More data for his endless research into the limits of magic.

  “I think so,” she said. She opened her eyes and saw Lestrade staring at her. “The safe should be open now.”

  “And you wrecked the wall,” Polly said. “What happened?”

  Gwen looked over towards the far wall. It had been shattered, glowing embers littering the floor. She’d been very lucky that she hadn’t accidentally set the whole house on fire.

  “I sucked the magic out of the safe and discharged it,” Gwen said, finally. “Inspector, can you see to dealing with the remains of the embers?”

  “Certainly,” Lestrade said, gruffly. He seemed to have remembered why she was the Royal Sorceress. “But I do need to see the papers.”

  Gwen nodded as she turned back to the safe. The interior was smaller than she had expected – everything looked funny from the Seer’s viewpoint – and crammed with documents, mostly written in a dreadful scrawl. Her lips twitched as she remembered the handwriting lessons her mother had forced David to take, insisting that he would never get anywhere in life until he mastered the art of using a pen. It had annoyed him that Gwen had proven to be better at handwriting than himself – and would probably annoy him more if he ever saw Sir Travis’s handwriting. It was incredibly difficult to read.

  “Help me spread them out on the desk,” she ordered, passing half of the papers to Polly and taking the rest for herself. Behind the papers, she saw a small metal box; carefully, she picked it up using magic and put it on the desk. Inside, she discovered four medals and a set of gold coins she didn’t recognise. “What are these?”

  Lestrade peered at the coins. “International Gold,” he said, seriously. “They’re very rare, outside the Diplomatic Service. Those coins are pure untraceable gold.”

  He picked up the medals thoughtfully. “These two are from campaigns in India,” he said. “This one is from China, I think... one of my detectives served in the Battle of Taipei and his medal looks similar. I don’t recognise this one at all.”

  Gwen did. The silver medallion with an engraving of a sword was only ever given to magicians who had distinguished themselves in combat. Gwen had one, awarded to her after the Battle of London. She was the only woman who had earned such a medal.

  “He must have picked it up in India,” she said, thoughtfully. Sir Travis had been a Sensitive... and yet he’d gone into battle? Remarkable. “Let’s have a look at the papers.”

  One leather-bound book was a journal, written – like so many others – for later publication. It was a common practice, all the more common now that the censors had largely stopped trying to control the thousands of new publications coming onto the market every month. A famous explorer or soldier could expect to sell hundreds of copies of his memoirs, using them – if he saw fit – to launch a political career. Sir Travis might have had political ambitions... or he might have intended to warn his fellow countrymen of a danger which he alone saw looming. It was an old tradition, one enthusiastically embraced by Colonel Sebastian; his book, Moving Mountains in the Empire, could easily have been entitled 1000 Reasons To Hate Female Magicians and Lady Gwen in Particular.

  Gwen glanced at the journal, resolving to read it properly later. Sir Travis had been more of a sketch artist than a writer, she realised; the first couple of pages were decorated with sketches of elephants, tigers and a woman who seemed to be wearing a scarf around her head and nothing else. She couldn’t help flushing as she turned the page, then put the journal down. Thankfully, neither Lestrade nor Polly seemed to notice.

  The other papers were confusing, all written in a hand that was nearly impossible to read – and sometimes shifted into code. Gwen parsed through them slowly, but none of them made any sense, apart from a re
ference to visiting a house in Whitehall. It nagged at her mind until she realised just who it referred to – and why. Clearly, Sir Travis had had no problems going into the heart of the British Establishment. And someone who didn’t have insider knowledge wouldn’t have a clue what it meant.

  “Look at this,” Lestrade said. He tapped the top of the papers, where there was a date and a single number. “There are some papers missing.”

  Gwen silently cursed her own oversight under her breath. He was right; the papers were numbered and dated and several pages were definitely missing.

  “Sir Travis was doing something for Lord Mycroft,” she said, out loud. “And it had to be something important, or Mycroft would never have stirred himself to come out here with me.”

  She looked over at Polly. “Do you know Lord Mycroft?”

  “The fat man,” Polly said. Her face softened, just slightly. “He was always polite and he used to tip me...”

  “Good for him,” Gwen said. “When did he last visit?”

  Lestrade coughed. “You cannot consider Lord Mycroft a suspect,” he objected.

  “I don’t,” Gwen assured him, with the private thought that if Mycroft had turned to crime, he could do something bigger than murdering one Sensitive – even if it was a remarkable feat – and there would be nothing left to suggest that the crime had even taken place. “But we do need to know who might have had a motive to want him dead.”

  She looked back down at the papers. Deciphering them would take weeks, even if she found someone who could break the code. And if Sir Travis had been working for Lord Mycroft... she could simply ask Lord Mycroft for help in breaking the code. He might just insist on taking the documents – Gwen knew that she wasn’t entrusted with all the Empire’s secrets – but at least she’d know.

  “Polly,” she said, slowly, “who came to visit on the night he died?”

  Polly hesitated, took a brief look at Lestrade, then tried to answer the question. “There were three visitors, I believe. Augustus Howell” – Lestrade started, as if he recognised the name - “Ambassador Talleyrand and the Special Undersecretary of State, David Crichton.”

  Gwen stared at her. “David Crichton?”

  “Yes,” Polly said. “Weak-chinned fellow, odd eyes, paid no attention to me on his first visit...”

  “Oh,” Gwen said. David, her brother? What was he doing mixed up in the whole affair? “Do you know why he came to visit?”

  “The first time was a month ago, before Sir Travis went off to foreign parts,” Polly said. “He came with the fat man; I served them brandy and little cakes I cooked myself. I think it was just an introduction, because he came back a night later while I was locked in my room.”

  “Surely the Ambassador is a more important figure,” Lestrade said. He might not have been the smartest policemen in the world, but he would have been able to recognise Gwen’s brother’s name. The police were taught to remember all of the aristocratic families, if only to ensure that they knew who had to be treated gently when arrested. “What could he want with Sir Travis?”

  “He made the appointment earlier in the day,” Polly explained. “The messenger didn’t give me a reason.”

  “He probably didn’t know,” Gwen muttered. She’d heard enough about how Talleyrand dealt with the world to be sure of it. Somehow, he’d managed to keep his position through several successive periods of unrest in France. “And Mr. Howell?”

  “A businessman,” Lestrade growled. There was something unpleasant in his voice that suggested it wasn’t a safe topic. “I don’t know why he would come to visit Sir Travis.”

  “He visited a day earlier, while Sir Travis was out,” Polly put in. “I think he... I think he was...”

  “A thoroughly unpleasant person,” Lestrade said.

  Gwen looked from one to the other, then put the question aside. “Which of them visited last?”

  “I don’t know,” Polly confessed. “But whoever came last has to be the killer, doesn’t he?”

  Gwen nodded. If one of the three was the killer, and the other two were innocent, the killer had to be the last one to visit or the person following him would have raised the alarm. The last visitor had opportunity... and yet, they would still have to get the better of a Sensitive. There were no signs of a struggle on Sir Travis’s body. Indeed, he’d looked remarkably peaceful. Drugged?

  But it should be impossible to drug a Sensitive, she told herself.

  She couldn’t see David as a killer. Her brother was stuffy – at least in public, although she knew that he’d flirted a bit with the wild side before taking a proper job – and had a very promising future ahead of him. A conviction for murder would ruin his career, his family... and Gwen’s career too. Ambassador Talleyrand had diplomatic immunity – he’d have to be sent home, rather than hang for murder – but his career would still be over if he were accused of murder. France would be looking for a scapegoat to appease the British public.

  And that left Howell. Who was he?

  “I’m going to take the matter to Lord Mycroft,” she said, standing up. After his exertions, he would probably be at the Diogenes Club eating a hefty lunch. “Perhaps he can clear up some of the issues here.”

  Lestrade gave Polly a sharp glance. “And her?”

  “She can stay here, if she wants,” Gwen told him. She’d have to speak to Norton and get him to recommend a lawyer to make sure that Polly actually got the jewels she was owed. “Or we can find her a guest house if she doesn’t want to stay.”

  “I’ll stay,” Polly said, quickly. “I promised Lady Mortimer that I would take care of her house.”

  Gwen nodded and left the room, walking down towards the lobby. Someone was arguing with two of the policemen, pushing forward by sheer strength of will. Lestrade stepped past her and raised his voice.

  “What,” he demanded, “is going on here?”

  “Inspector Lestrade, I presume,” the newcomer said. “My name is Charles Bellingham, Sir Charles Bellingham. I am Sir Travis’s close personal friend. Perhaps you could explain, Inspector, just what you are doing in my friend’s home?”

  Gwen concealed her amusement at Lestrade’s reaction. Charles Bellingham was a household name.

  “Your friend was found dead,” Lestrade said. “If you will come with me, I shall explain in the drawing room.”

  We may have questions for him, Gwen thought, and followed them into the drawing room.

  Chapter Eleven

  Unlike most men, Sir Charles Bellingham didn’t do a double-take when he saw through Gwen’s male attire and realised that she was female. Instead, he merely took Gwen’s hand and kissed it lightly, smiling in a manner that reminded Gwen of Jack, the day he’d shown her what lay beneath the prosperity of the British Empire.

  “The Royal Sorceress,” he said. There was more than a trace of India in his voice. “Travis would be delighted to know that such an esteemed personage was investigating his death. He was a Sensitive, you know. And he was always quite sensitive about it. I only found out because he kept beating me at cards.”

  Gwen collected herself as Lestrade motioned for Sir Charles to sit down, which he did in a manner that suggested that he owned the building. He was tall, with long blonde hair that hung down over a tanned and rugged face. Lady Mary would have said that he had character, just before encouraging Gwen to start casting him downcast glances in the hopes of interesting him. After all, everyone knew Sir Charles Bellingham. The adventurer had a gift for self-publicity that outshone even Lord Nelson.

  She’d read the dispatches Sir Charles had sent back to Britain to be printed in the newspapers, back before Master Thomas had taken her on as his apprentice. Sir Charles had spent most of his life in India, serving the British Crown; he’d done everything from negotiating with Indian princes to donning a disguise and travelling into the heart of Afghanistan, even spending two months living with the tribesmen there. None of the dispatches Gwen had read had mentioned Sir Travis, at least as far as
she could remember, but maybe that wasn’t surprising.; someone like Sir Charles couldn’t afford to praise others too much, or they might steal his fame.

  “I don’t think you ever mentioned playing cards in your dispatches,” Gwen said, slowly. It wasn’t the right thing to say, she realised a moment later. He’d managed to fluster her. “Did Sir Travis play often?”

  “We spent weeks riding through India and sleeping in the open air,” Sir Charles said. He gave her a wink that made her blush. “There wasn’t much else for us to do, so we cracked open the pack and played for hours. He kept winning.”

  Gwen nodded. Master Thomas had told her that Sensitives, Seers and Talkers were discouraged from gambling – they had unfair advantages – but the rule had never been properly policed. She could easily imagine a Sensitive as capable as Sir Travis having absolutely no problem winning game after game, at least until his opponent caught on.

  “Well, until I realised the truth,” Sir Charles added. “Then things were a bit more even.”

  He smiled at her. “He really did have a gift for talking to the Indians,” he said. “The man could speak almost all of their languages like a native, far better than myself. It took him a mere six months to master the dialect of one particular tribe and become great friends with their leader. He even managed to convince them to put aside their fear and join the campaign against the Thugs, bad cess to the lot of them.”

  Lestrade coughed, meaningfully. “When did you last see Sir Travis?”

  “Two weeks ago, just before he went to Istanbul,” Sir Charles told him. “We’d gone before, but this time he had to go alone – some geezer in the Foreign Office thought it would be better for this particular meeting to be on a low key. Or something like that. I was busy having my book edited, so I didn’t object when he told me he was going alone. In hindsight, perhaps I should have gone. Those Turks really take insults seriously.”