Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  Ivan looked at her pale hand, then tapped it lightly. “We have you to control them, don’t we?”

  “I have never tried to control more than a few of the undead,” Olivia said, stretching the truth a little. She’d managed to put Master Thomas’s undead to sleep, but only after he’d died and the creatures had started to run amok. It could easily have been a complete disaster. “What happens if there are too many of them for me to control?”

  She gritted her teeth, wishing she knew how to be more persuasive. Gregory might be a dangerously insane fanatic, but he wasn’t stupid. By the time he unleashed his army of undead monsters, he’d have Olivia – his one Necromancer – Charmed to the point where she obeyed orders without question, all independent thought and feeling gone. Ivan wasn’t a fanatic, she hoped; he could help her, if she managed to convince him of the looming disaster. But if he believed that Russia was doomed regardless ...

  “We won’t let it get out of hand,” Ivan said, finally. “The undead aren’t unstoppable.”

  Olivia remembered the horrors of London and glared at him, throwing caution to the winds. “A single undead is fast, savage and feels no pain,” she snapped. “You have to cripple one completely to stop it, even though their behaviour is predicable. But a group of them will be fast, ruthless and very intelligent. You have to burn them all to stop them, yet they’ll keep coming until you burn them to ash. If a few hundred of the undead forced the destruction of several miles of London, what will it do if you unleash a few hundred thousand?”

  She shuddered, recalling the days after the Swing. Some undead had survived long enough to escape the first purge, popping up in London or even outside the city, where they’d started to build new swarms of undead. They’d been hunted down and destroyed, but there was always a quiet nagging doubt. Had they really destroyed all of the undead? There was no way to know for sure.

  “I think you’re wrong,” Ivan said. “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “So do I,” Olivia said. She batted her eyelashes at him again. “Can I go for a walk?”

  “I can take you through the complex,” Ivan said. He gave her a reproving look. “I’m afraid I can’t take you outside.”

  Olivia nodded, unsurprised. She needed the exercise ... and she needed a chance to try to learn more about the interior of the complex. If she managed to figure out where the doors were, she would be one step closer to escape. Ivan might join her – he clearly had his doubts – but if he didn’t, she could try to make it out on her own. If worst came to worst, perhaps the guards would kill her, forcing Gregory to destroy the undead he kept in cages. They couldn’t be controlled without a Necromancer.

  She gritted her teeth, steeling her resolve. This time, she promised herself, she wouldn’t make any mistakes. She couldn’t afford them.

  Chapter Seventeen

  That was foolish and reckless,” Sir Sidney said.

  Gwen scowled. It was bad enough that the only way she could meet him alone was through sneaking into his cabin after the lamps had been dimmed for sleep, raising the spectre of being caught and accused of ideas above her station. She wasn’t in the mood to be told off by Sir Sidney, who didn’t have to pose as a maid to gain admittance to Russia.

  “There wasn’t much choice,” she said, tartly. “Raechel already knew that something wasn’t quite right about me.”

  “You didn’t bend the knee enough,” Sir Sidney growled. “You should have made her forget.”

  Gwen sighed. “I can’t make someone forget anything,” she said. “Charm doesn’t work like that, not really. I could have tried to Charm her into obedience or merely keeping her mouth shut, but it might well not have worked. Raechel is bright, clever enough to figure out who I am; she’d have enough mental keys to undo any Charm I used on her. And then we would have a new enemy.”

  She sighed, again. Raechel was bright enough to be useful, but also woefully untrained for any kind of sensitive mission. Given time, Gwen was sure she’d be as useful as Irene, even without magic, yet there was no time for any proper training. She’d half-hoped that Raechel could be convinced to stay in the embassy, out of the way, while Gwen carried out her mission, but Raechel was adamant that she needed to help. At least it was a more productive use of her intelligence than allowing men to chase her, while carefully not running very fast.

  “Then you should have spanked her like a schoolgirl and told her to do as she was told,” Sir Sidney added. “We don’t need complications.”

  “Raechel is old enough to understand what is going on,” Gwen said. “We can use her.”

  “She’s also desperate to find a role for herself,” Sir Sidney said. “That could be dangerous.”

  Gwen lifted an eyebrow. “Find a role for herself?”

  “It happens,” Sir Sidney explained. “Someone is born to a role that doesn’t suit them – like you, for instance. They start acting badly while trying to find a place where they actually belong. Raechel is too smart to fit into the life of the average young aristocratic woman, yet she’s also trapped and constrained by both society and her relatives. Acting out seems to be the only solution for her.”

  Gwen felt her blood run cold. “But what if she’d managed to get pregnant?”

  “It would certainly have changed her social standing,” Sir Sidney pointed out, dryly. “Perhaps she would have been happier as a mother, even if the child was born out of wedlock.”

  “I doubt it,” Gwen said.

  She sighed, yet again. It was one of the other great social injustices of the post-Swing British Empire. Bastardy carried one hell of a social stigma, even though the bastard child was the sole innocent in the affair. Sir Charles’ bastardy – well, not exactly bastardy, but close enough – had undone his life when he’d discovered the truth. Bastard children couldn’t inherit or claim any ranks or titles ... most of the boys had commissions quietly purchased for them and went into the army. The girls often went into convents.

  “Maybe not,” Sir Sidney agreed. He looked forward, darkly. “You keep an eye on her, Lady Gwen. And make sure she doesn’t say anything stupid at the wrong time.”

  He paused. “And there’s another problem,” he added. “What happens if someone reads her mind?”

  Gwen muttered a curse under her breath. Talleyrand had been accompanied, in Britain, by a female magician who had passed as his daughter, a young girl called Simone. She’d been a Talker, reading the minds of everyone she encountered, until Gwen had arranged for her to be escorted by other British magicians. It wasn’t technically legal to allow a Talker to accompany a diplomatic mission – as far as Gwen knew, she was the only magician attached to Lord Standish’s party – but the rule had been bent more often than it had been upheld.

  “I’ll teach her some basic meditation techniques,” Gwen said. Raechel would probably benefit from the lessons in any case. She was a bundle of energy, strong enough to overwhelm any of the older nannies and governesses Lady Standish had tried to assign to her. “But we may just have to hope that her mind remains unread.”

  “I don’t like relying on anything of the sort,” Sir Sidney growled. “And you should know better too.”

  Gwen shrugged, wishing she could go back to her bunk and sleep. Answering Raechel’s questions, serving the family at dinner and putting the girl to bed had been exhausting. She had the distinct feeling that whoever Raechel ended up marrying was going to be bent to her will, even if he was the most unpleasant old bachelor in England. Or he’d invoke very old rights and keep his wife a prisoner, in all but name.

  “They will know something’s wrong if they read my mind,” she pointed out. Irene could slip through Gwen’s mental shields, at least when Gwen wasn’t on the alert, but other Talkers would feel different to her. She would sense their intrusion ... and they would sense her reaction to their intrusion. There would be some hard questions when they reported it to their superiors. “I can’t lower my mental shields for them.”

  “That’s why you’re a mai
d,” Sir Sidney reminded her. “They won’t bother reading your mind.”

  Gwen had her doubts about that. The aristocracy might, as a general rule, pay no attention to the help, but people as smart as Lord Mycroft or Talleyrand wouldn’t allow prejudice to prevent them from employing servants as spies. She rather doubted the Russians would feel any differently. Would they understand that Lord Mycroft might have hidden an operative in with the help? It seemed quite possible. And what would they do if they realised Gwen was much more than just a Talker?

  And will the Captain have anything to say to Lord Standish? She asked herself. It seemed unlikely – Lord Standish was hardly likely to thank him for making love to Raechel – but it was something she would need to watch. If he tells him that I passed through a locked door ... and someone reads that from his mind ...

  She shook her head, running her hand through her blonde curls. Raechel had asked, partly in jest, why she didn’t grow her hair out and really shock the stodgy old men who hated the thought of taking orders from a slip of a girl. Gwen had pointed out that it was hard to pass as a man with long hair – fashion these days insisted that men couldn’t grow their hair out past their neck – and besides, long hair would simply get in the way. It was also a poke in her mother’s eye, although she hadn’t told Raechel that; Lady Mary had enjoyed combing Gwen’s long hair, back before she’d gone to Cavendish Hall. Gwen had always hated being treated as a girl.

  “You should be safe until you start poking around,” Sir Sidney said, his words breaking into her thoughts. Gwen hastily replayed the conversation in her mind, then nodded. “But be careful with her, all right? If I have to take over, my first step will be to tie her up in the embassy.”

  “If you have to take over,” Gwen said, “you’ll have other things to worry about, I think.”

  Sir Sidney nodded, then looked concerned as she yawned. “Go get some sleep,” he ordered. “And make sure you keep a sharp eye on her.”

  Gwen nodded, yawned again and slipped out of his cabin. At night, the interior of the airship seemed to belong to another world. Only a handful of dim lights provided illumination as she made her way back to the cabin she shared with Janet and Romulus, making it difficult for her to pick out her surroundings as she walked. It was easy to see, she decided, why so few passengers stayed in the smoking or drawing rooms after the lights were dimmed. The environment was surprisingly creepy.

  She slipped into the cabin, then blinked in surprise as she saw Romulus sitting on his bunk, reading a book. It didn’t surprise her that he could read – he was a butler, not a common footman – but what did surprise her was that he was reading Janet a bedtime story. Janet had never grown used to the airship, any more than Lady Standish had, and had tried to spend as much time as possible in bed. Gwen had found herself doing much of Janet’s work as well as her own.

  “You should have been here earlier,” Romulus said, as Gwen closed the door behind her. She couldn’t help feeling more than a little trapped, even though she had no sense of danger from either of them. The compartment was just too small for three people, one of them a grown man. “Where were you?”

  “I was just taking a break in the drawing room,” Gwen said. “It looks so dark underneath us.”

  “It would,” Romulus said. “The German states are nowhere near as developed as England.”

  Gwen nodded as she removed her maid’s cap, allowing her hair to spring free. The German states had been battlegrounds since time out of mind, their rulers jumping from side to side and religion to religion as it suited them, while their people bore the brunt of their decisions. It was no surprise to her, at least, that Germans made up one of the largest groups emigrating to the American Colonies ... and were the most enthusiastic supporters of King George. He was actually their protector, while the German Princes were more interested in their own power than their population. And the French and Russians wouldn’t hesitate to turn the German states into another battleground if they went to war.

  England looked surprisingly bright at night, she knew from experience. There were gas and electric lights everywhere, particularly in the centre of London. But the German states had no such developments. Even Paris, she’d been told, was dimmer than London. Looking down at the Germans from high overhead made her feel as if she was staring into another world.

  “I’ll go for a brisk walk,” Romulus said. “But I suggest you hurry.”

  Gwen nodded, waited for him to leave the compartment and then undid her dress, allowing it to fall to the deck. One definite advantage of the maid’s outfit was that it could be removed quickly, if necessary. Gwen still flushed at the memory of her mother advising her not to eat or drink anything before dressing and going to a ball. She honestly didn’t understand why her mother and the other Grande Dames of High Society put up with the dresses. It wasn’t as if they liked being uncomfortable.

  “Pretty,” Janet said, weakly. “But you should grow out your hair.”

  “Maybe,” Gwen said, as she reached for her nightgown. It was actually more modest and uncomfortable than anything she’d worn as a young aristocrat, but it would have to suffice. “I notice he was reading to you.”

  “I can’t read,” Janet confessed, sadly. “Can you?”

  Gwen nodded. It wasn’t uncommon for servants to sit with their young charges at lessons – Jo had done just that with Susan – but few of them received any formal education. Janet would never have a chance to learn, now that Raechel was too old for lessons ... and Lord and Lady Standish were unlikely to produce children. Gwen was mildly surprised they hadn’t produced children or separated. Didn’t Lord Standish know he had to produce a heir?

  She changed the subject before Janet could ask more incisive questions. “Do you think he’s sweet on you?”

  Janet blushed, so deeply that Gwen knew she was sweet on him. And well she might be, Gwen knew; Romulus might have been black, but he was clearly a decent person. Besides, Janet didn’t have to account for herself to the Grande Dames. No one would really care if she married a black man. There were quite a few interracial marriages down in the Docklands, where Indians and Chinese mingled with Scots and Irish. And, if Sir Charles had been right, there were other such marriages in India.

  She climbed into her bunk as Romulus returned wearing a nightshirt that looked to have seen better days. Janet winked at her, then closed her eyes and went to sleep. Romulus doused the lights, then climbed into his own bunk. Gwen allowed herself a tight smile, then closed her eyes. Morning would come all too soon.

  The next thing she knew, Romulus was gently shaking her bunk. Gwen sat upright, almost banging her head against the upper bunk, then looked at the butler. The lights were back up to full brightness; Gwen scrambled for her pocket watch – a gift from Heather, officially – and glanced at the time. It was nearly seven o’clock in the morning and she felt as though she hadn’t slept at all.

  “They could sleep in,” she muttered, as she pulled herself out of bed. “Where would they go?”

  Romulus snorted, then headed for the hatch. “They need to stay in practice,” he reminded her. “His Lordship cannot expect to sleep in till noon when important negotiations are underway.”

  Gwen nodded, then dressed rapidly as soon as he left the compartment. Janet still looked miserable in her bunk, so Gwen left her there and hurried along to the kitchen compartment, where the staff were already preparing great bowls of fish and eggs, along with sliced and buttered bread. It smelt faintly funny to Gwen – apparently, cooking at attitude did odd things to the food – but she didn’t mind. Taking one of the trays of food, she carried it through the airship to the dining room, where Lord Standish, Sir Sidney and two of the other diplomats were already sitting. Romulus stood behind Lord Standish, fussing over his necktie.

  “Put it on the table,” Lord Standish ordered. He was reading a copy of The Times, but Gwen couldn’t help noticing that it was outdated by several days. He’d probably already read it several times over. “A
nd then wake my niece. Inform her I wish to speak with her.”

  Gwen placed the tray on the table, curtseyed and hurried along to Raechel’s cabin, wondering just what Lord Standish wished to say to his niece. Inside, Raechel was sleeping in her bed, wearing nothing apart from a set of thin underclothes. Gwen sighed, cleared her throat loudly, then watched as Raechel stirred without waking. She’d probably gone to sleep very late the previous evening, even though she’d had little to do. Gwen couldn’t help wondering if the Captain had sneaked into her cabin for a midnight visit.

  Maybe I should start sleeping outside her cabin, she thought, then cleared her throat for the second time. “My Lady,” she said, “wake up!”

  Raechel jumped and sat up, looking around wildly. Gwen sighed, then reached for the bottle of water by the bedside and passed it to Raechel, who took it and sipped carefully. There were few glasses of any description on the airship and none at all in the bedrooms, just to prevent spills. Gwen rather approved. She would have had to clean up any mess caused by the occupants.

  “It’s far too early to get up,” Raechel protested, when she looked at the clock on the bulkhead. She’d never been in the habit of rising early, even before they’d boarded the airship. “I want to go back to sleep.”

  “Your Uncle demands your presence,” Gwen said. “And he sent me to get you.”

  Raechel shrugged, lay back on the bed and pulled the covers over her head. Gwen felt her temper snap; she reached out with her magic, pulled the covers away and then picked Raechel up and dropped her, none too gently, on the deck. Raechel yelped as her bottom hit the cold metal, then glowered at Gwen, shocked awake.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” she muttered, as she pulled herself back to her feet, one hand rubbing her behind. She didn’t seem intimidated, merely annoyed. “I need my sleep.”