The Great Game (Royal Sorceress)

by Nuttall, Christopher

  “It wasn’t me,” Sir Charles said, quickly. The carriage rocked as the coachman turned a corner. “I don’t have the money to back up gambling debts.”

  Gwen considered asking him about his family, before realising that it was likely to be a sore subject. She didn’t like talking about her family either. Besides, Sir Charles had created a reputation that was all his own, unlike many others of nobler birth. There was only so far one’s family name could take someone.

  “Four thousand pounds, according to the demand note,” Gwen said. “And they want it paid at once.”

  Sir Charles frowned. “Gambling debts have always been tricky things,” he said. “Sometimes they get passed down to the heir, sometimes they disappear when the debtor dies... but four thousand pounds couldn’t be written off so easily. The Golden Turk will be out of pocket, at the very least.”

  “And at worst, there will be a chain reaction of debt,” Gwen said. Her father had made David study the South Seas Bubble of 1720, where the sudden collapse in share prices had ruined countless investors, many of whom had only had a vague link to the South Seas Company. If the gambling debt was written off, the Golden Turk might be unable to meet its own commitments and go out of business – and that might take out other businesses. “No wonder they’re demanding immediate repayment.”

  She’d forwarded the demand note to Norton for his attention, but as far as she knew the executor had around a year to carry out his duties. However, the Mortimer Family weren’t being patient – and as Lady Mortimer had died less than a year ago, the legal web was more tangled than anything Gwen had seen. No doubt they would argue that Sir Travis’s will overrode his mother’s, leaving Polly’s jewels in the hands of Lady Mortimer’s niece.

  “They might not be able to wait,” Sir Charles said. He gave her a sharp look. “Are you armed?”

  Gwen had to giggle. “How many girls have you asked that question?”

  “It’s a wise precaution in India,” Sir Charles said, not in the least abashed. “You never know what will happen, particularly if you live outside the cities.”

  “I’ve got my magic,” Gwen reminded him. Master Thomas had believed in carrying concealed weapons – and ordered Irene to teach Gwen how to conceal some on her own person – but he’d also warned her never to discuss them with anyone. “Are you armed?”

  “I brought my service revolver,” Sir Charles said. “The Golden Turk is meant to be safe – even if the young bloods do think that going there gives them a hint of roguish dealings – but you’re going to tell them that it might be a while before they see their money.”

  “If they ever do,” Gwen said.

  The Golden Turk was situated at the outskirts of London’s dockyards, not too far from the Rookery. Gwen couldn’t help noticing that there were a surprising number of Turkish immigrants in the area, including a handful who looked quite well off. Lord Mycroft had told her that the last change of power in the Ottoman Empire had sent hundreds of corrupt officials scurrying out of Turkey – not unlike Lord Blackburn going into Turkey, she had to acknowledge – and quite a few of them had ended up in Britain. The troubles with France had somehow made Turkish food fashionable, giving some of them a chance to make money and renovate the area. Given time, it might end up looking like Istanbul.

  “Most of the Turks who came here were upper class,” Sir Charles said, softly. “They didn’t take coming here well, but it beats having their heads removed by the new Sultan.”

  Gwen nodded.

  The Golden Turk was a large building, unmarked save for a single crested image out of Turkish mythology. Gwen recognised it as a genie, an entity who would grant three wishes to anyone who gained possession of its lamp, but would often twist the wishes until the unlucky person would throw the lamp away. The discovery of magic had started a search for magical artefacts, even though no one had ever encountered a genie or any other supernatural creature in recorded history. Gwen suspected that the Royal College had quietly encouraged the search in order to trick Britain’s enemies into wasting time.

  She led the way through the main door and found herself standing on a balcony, overlooking a gambling hall. Dozens of men were sitting at tables, throwing dice, spinning wheels or playing with cards, while women wearing wisps of clothing moved from table to table, whispering encouragement in male ears. Gwen had to force herself to look away from one dark-haired beauty whose clothes concealed absolutely nothing. She couldn’t imagine wearing such a revealing outfit anywhere, even in the privacy of her own home.

  “Those tables are minor,” Sir Charles explained, as they made their way around the balcony towards the office. “It’s unlikely that anyone will win or lose more than fifty or so pounds.”

  Gwen gave him a puzzled look. Fifty pounds could keep someone alive for weeks on the streets – if they were allowed to keep it.

  “Gambling is addictive,” Sir Charles added. “The richer men down there will be urged to join the senior games, the ones that are by invitation only. Once there, they will begin gambling for real money.” He pointed to golden coins on the tables. “Those are made of wood – most gamblers hand in their money to the cashier and exchange it for gambling chips, which are useless outside the building. Then they take their winnings and exchange them for cash.”

  “Real money,” Gwen repeated. “Don’t they know that fifty pounds is real money?”

  “Of course not,” Sir Charles said. There was a hint of bitterness in his voice. “Most of the people with regular tabs here don’t actually sully their hands earning money.”

  He leaned over until he was whispering in her ear. “And in many of the games, the odds are slanted in favour of the house,” he added. “Smart gamblers know better than to play those games – and yet I don’t see any empty tables. Do you?”

  Gwen shook her head. She’d never learned how to gamble and couldn’t follow what the players were doing, but it didn’t look as if many of them were winning. If they wanted to just give away their money, there was no shortage of charities – and the hospitals were always looking for donations from wealthy aristocrats. Or maybe she was simply unable to follow what was going on. The ones who looked like losers might be winners.

  They reached the booth at the far end, manned by a dark-skinned girl who gave them both a warm smile. “Good morning, Gentlemen,” she said, in oddly-accented English. “What would you like to play today?”

  “I am here to see the manager,” Gwen said, passing the girl her card.

  The girl jumped, clearly not having realised that Gwen was female.

  “I shall have you shown to his office,” the girl said, quickly. She glanced at the card, turned and called out several words in a foreign language to someone out of sight, and then looked back at Gwen. “A guide will be here in a moment.”

  “She called you a witch,” Sir Charles whispered in Gwen’s ear. “I don’t think she likes you.”

  “I’ve been called worse,” Gwen reminded him.

  A side door opened, revealing a young girl of indeterminate age wearing a thin sari that covered her body, but concealed almost nothing. Gwen shook her head in disbelief as the girl pressed her hands together, gave her a half-bow and then beckoned for them to come through the door and into a darkened staircase. Like Cavendish Hall and most aristocratic residencies, the Golden Turk was honey-combed with corridors and stairwells intended for the staff, keeping them out of sight. The girl led them up two flights of stairs and into an office that overlooked a set of smaller rooms. Gwen looked down and realised that each one had a table and a handful of men sitting around it, gambling.

  “The more formal games,” Sir Charles said, quietly. “Down there, entire fortunes are moving from hand to hand – and the house always takes its cut. Or other things are being gambled – I knew a man who tried to gamble away his wife.”

  Gwen stared at him. “That can’t be legal,” she protested. “You can’t sell a wife.”

  “It wasn’t,” Sir Charles said. �
�But he still tried. The laws, such as they are, don’t always apply here.”

  “Royal Sorceress,” an accented voice said. “I confess that I have no idea of how to address a Royal Sorceress. How does one address you without causing offence?”

  Gwen looked up. A light-skinned man was standing there, wearing long white robes decorated with golden strands and a simple white skullcap. His beard was neatly trimmed; Gwen couldn’t help noticing that he seemed to have spent more time on personal grooming than any other man she knew. He wore a curved blade at his belt, ready to be drawn and used in a fight, although she had no idea how well he could use it. His robes didn’t hide the fact that he was considerably overweight.

  “Lady Gwen is sufficient,” she said. She wasn’t going to let herself be called Mistress Gwen, even though it was the feminine version of Master Thomas’s title. “I am currently serving as the executor of Sir Travis Mortimer’s will.”

  “Ah,” the Turk said. “I am Abdullah Bey Defterdar, owner and manager of this fine establishment. Welcome to the Golden Turk, a little piece of our home for us poor exiles.”

  His face shifted into a sombre mask. “It is customary among our people to chatter about nothing first,” he said, as he led them into his office. “But you English are a hasty folk – and I am minded to be hasty too. Please, be seated.”

  Gwen sat down on a cushion and watched as he produced a set of account books from a shelf on the wall. “We keep careful track of all debts owed to us,” Abdullah informed her. “As many of our players often gamble beyond what they are carrying on their person, we allow them to run up gambling tabs – provided that they can prove that they can repay us or that they have a backer who can repay us. Many of your young English noblemen try to use their father as their backer, which can cause problems when the father refuses to back up the debt.”

  He passed the first account book to Gwen. “In this case, you will see that Sir Travis ran up a series of debts over the last four months,” he explained. “Those debts were not, at first, backed – but his luck held and he won a place at the advanced tables.”

  Gwen looked up at him. “The advanced tables?”

  “Those who prove that they can pay can be invited to the advanced tables,” Abdullah said. “It causes no shortage of embarrassment when a player is pushed out because he cannot continue to match his competitors, even without actually losing. We prefer to avoid such scenes where possible.”

  “I can imagine,” Gwen murmured.

  “Sir Travis started to lose – not all the time, but he lost enough to run up a debt,” Abdullah said. “We asked him to find a backer or withdraw from the games; he found Hiram Pasha, a wealthy man, to back up his debts.” He produced an envelope, withdrew a sheet of paper and passed it to Gwen. “The Pasha promised to pay if Sir Travis proved unable to meet his debts.”

  Gwen glanced at the paper, then frowned. “It is in Arabic,” she pointed out. “I cannot read it.”

  Sir Charles took the paper and read it quickly. “It’s very florid, but it basically commits Hiram Pasha to guaranteeing the debt and paying the Golden Turk if Sir Travis proved unable to pay,” he said. “Do you want a precise translation?”

  “No, thank you,” Gwen said. She looked up at Abdullah, who was watching her expectantly. “I know very little about gambling, but Sir Travis is clearly unable to pay his debts. Why haven’t you collected the money from Hiram Pasha?”

  “We attempted to contact the Pasha when we heard about Sir Travis’s death,” Abdullah explained. “However, he did not answer his door and the messenger was reluctant to try to do anything that might attract his attention. He was known to have a dark temper when crossed.”

  Gwen knew far too many people like that, starting with most of the Royal Committee. “So you resorted to sending a demand note to the estate?”

  “We need that money,” Abdullah admitted. “Legally, we have a claim on part of Sir Travis’s estate.”

  That was questionable, Gwen knew... but Abdullah was between a rock and a hard place. Sir Travis might not have owned very much, yet if it were auctioned off the proceeds would definitely be more than four thousand pounds. In that case, Abdullah would have to try to get the money from the estate first, before trying to claim it from Hiram Pasha. After all, Sir Travis could still pay his debts... if the estate were sold instead of passed down to the closest male heir.

  “So it would seem,” Gwen said. “Who is Hiram Pasha, anyway?”

  Abdullah gave her a surprised look. “How can you not have heard of him? He runs an import-export company, importing food and materials from home to make our exile a little more comfortable – and exporting British produce to Turkey. The” – he spluttered a number of words Gwen didn’t recognise – “who calls himself the Sultan has a mania for British goods. He is obsessed enough to allow us exiles to dabble our hands in business, just as long as he gets his imports. Hiram Pasha is one of those who serve as a link in the chain from here to Istanbul.”

  “A very wealthy man,” Gwen guessed. “Does he have a reputation for paying his debts?”

  “Of course he does,” Abdullah said. “If he hadn’t, we would never have accepted his word of honour.”

  Gwen nodded. The courts might grant Abdullah his debts – either from Sir Travis’s estate or Hiram Pasha’s pockets – or they might not. Polite Society disapproved of gambling debts, which was ironic as most of them were run up by aristocrats, and they might not allow the debt to be passed on to someone else. And that might destroy the Golden Turk. Even a prolonged legal battle might be disastrous.

  “His debts were backed,” she said, slowly. “Did Hiram Pasha back any other debts?”

  Abdullah gave her an odd look. “No,” he said, slowly. “Sir Travis was the only one he backed.”

  Gwen looked over at Sir Charles. “How did they know each other?”

  “They might well have met,” Sir Charles said, slowly. “The simplest way to practice another language is to speak to a native – and the native might well know more about what was actually happening in Istanbul than a diplomat. Sir Travis could have learned a great deal from him.”

  “Could be,” Gwen said.

  Abdullah cleared his throat. “This is all very interesting, but I must have my money,” he said, quickly. “I cannot afford to write off such an expense. If you do not present me with the money, I will be forced to start legal action.”

  “I need copies of your accounts,” Gwen said, firmly. “We are currently in the process of working out what Sir Travis actually owned and what belongs to the family. Once that is completed, we will try to settle his debts.”

  “I need the money quickly,” Abdullah insisted. “Within a week, perhaps two - or I shall be forced to hire lawyers...”

  Gwen nodded. “We will deal with it as quickly as we can,” she said. She stood up. “For the moment, we need to visit Hiram Pasha. Do you have his address?”

  Abdullah found another book, flicked through the pages and showed her a particular page. Hiram Pasha lived close to the Thames, Gwen saw, near the giant warehouses that stored goods shipped in and out of London. And near one of the bases Jack had used to conceal his army for the planned uprising. She wondered, as she copied down the address, if Hiram Pasha had ever known what was hidden nearby.

  “Thank you for your time,” Gwen said, taking the account books under one arm. “We will contact you as soon as possible.”

  The manager insisted on escorting them back down to the ground floor personally, rather than summoning his young servant to do the honours. Gwen wondered, absently, what sort of relationship there was between the two; the girl seemed too dark-skinned to be Abdullah’s daughter, yet she seemed more than just a servant. She puzzled over it as they were shown outside with a final handshake, then asked Sir Charles as they walked back to the carriage.

  “Many of them were Ottoman nobility, fleeing the purge,” Sir Charles commented. “Pasha isn’t a surname; it’s a title. And many of them broug
ht their servants with them when they fled. That girl is probably someone who grew up with noble children and played with them, but isn’t really noble. You should pity her.”

  Gwen nodded.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Not a very impressive house,” Gwen commented, as they climbed out of the carriage in front of Hiram Pasha’s home. It was a dark two-story building, one of many built for London’s merchants and traders. “You’d think he could have bought a proper home.”

  “He might not have wanted to stay in London permanently,” Sir Charles pointed out. “If he was not completely barred from Istanbul, he would merely have wanted a place to stay in London, rather than a proper home.”

  Gwen nodded as she walked up to the solid wooden door, found the knocker and tapped it firmly. There was no response. She waited two minutes, then tapped again. Surely Hiram Pasha would have a manservant or a maid, even when he wasn’t at home. His partners might come to visit and need somewhere to leave their letters or cards.

  “Maybe he fled the debt,” Sir Charles suggested. “Four thousand pounds is a lot of money.”

  “Could be,” Gwen said, as she stepped backwards. The curtains were drawn over the ground floor windows, but the upper floor windows were uncovered. She glanced at Sir Charles, then levitated herself up into the air until she could peer into the windows. The first window showed a small bedroom, completely deserted; the second revealed a man lying on the ground, unconscious or dead.

  “Someone’s wounded,” Gwen said, dropping back to the ground. “I saw a body.”

  She stepped up to the door and reached out with her magic, pressing against the lock. It clicked, allowing her to push the door open. The interior of the house was as dark and silent as the grave; Gwen concentrated, generated a ball of light and sent it drifting forward, illuminating the hallway. A second dead body was lying on the floor.