Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “He told them all to relax and enjoy themselves,” Romulus said, when she asked. “And then he went out of the room, escorted by his bodyguards.”

  Gwen had never really believed in precognition. It was theoretically possible, she knew, but few of the Seers at Cavendish Hall – or the local bedlam – had produced anything that was actually usable. And yet, the sense of impending doom running down her spine made it impossible to believe that something bad wasn’t about to happen. She hesitated, wishing – again – that she could talk to Sir Sidney. But he was somewhere within the mass of people on the dance floor, utterly untouchable.

  “Keep an eye on Raechel,” she said, heedless of the fact she was giving orders to her superior. “Take care of her.”

  She slipped back out of the door before Romulus could argue, then pulled her magic around herself like a shield, concealing her presence as best she could. It would work against normal guards, she knew from experience, but it was anyone’s guess how well it would work against the magician-monks protecting the Tsar. They might overlook her too or they might recognise that something was wrong and start hunting for her. And, she also knew from experience, if someone had a good reason to look, they found it easier to see through her magic. But there was no other way to hide.

  It grew colder as she made her way towards the lower levels, concealing herself in the shadows as she passed a handful of armed guards, who seemed more intent on keeping people in the building rather than keeping people out. There were more guards outside, she discovered, as she entered the reception hall in time to see a line of monks filing out of the building, chanting quietly in unison. The words sounded like Formal Latin, but Gwen couldn’t understand them. There was no sign of the Tsar.

  Outside, she sensed pulsing waves of magic emanating from a second group of monks, probing the minds of their fellows. If the magic touched her, Gwen knew, she would be detected. She drew on her own magic and leapt into the air, floating high above the monks and peering down as they swept through the newcomers. Two were pushed to one side, then beheaded on the spot, their heads falling on the driven snow. Sickened, Gwen looked away as the monks resumed their march out of the grounds and onto the streets. Carefully, she drifted after them, praying that she remained unseen. It was clear the monks would happily kill all intruders.

  Moscow was no brighter than St Petersburg, she realised, as the moon rose higher, casting an eerie shimmering light over the whole affair. The soldiers and monks had driven people indoors or out of sight; they moved, unseen, through the city, heading towards a large cathedral that looked new, lacking the grime that covered most Russian buildings. Gwen felt another chill running down her spine as she saw lines of monks entering the building, magic sweeping around them in a manner that was new to her. There was something odd about their magic, something that bothered her. A new form of magic?

  And something else was wrong. There were thousands of monks and soldiers entering the building, yet the building didn’t seem to be growing any fuller. She puzzled over it for a long moment, then blinked in surprise as she saw a large golden carriage rattling down the street and come to a halt in front of the cathedral. Moments later, the Tsar stepped out of the carriage and smiled at his worshippers. The monks promptly fell to their knees and prostrated themselves in front of the Tsar. Gwen felt sick – and chilled – as she realised the monks truly did worship their Tsar. No one, as far as she knew, worshipped King George.

  The Tsar walked into the building, looking neither left nor right. His monks waited until he was inside the building, then rose to their feet and followed him, the sound of their chanting growing louder as they entered the building. The soldiers brought up the rear, weapons in hand, leaving the grounds completely empty. Gwen hesitated, then dropped down, looking for a way into the building. The doors gaped open invitingly, but there were two monks standing just inside, watching for latecomers. Gwen gathered her magic and banged their heads together, hard. They collapsed to the ground, looking stunned.

  Smiling, Gwen checked them both, then pulled the bodies into the shadows and removed the robe and cowl from one of the monks. It smelt of urine, she discovered; underneath, he wore something that looked like a nappy and little else. She remembered one of Sir Charles’s stories and shuddered, forcing herself to breathe through her mouth as she pulled the robe over her head. The eunuchs of India and China were often called the Foul Fraternity because they couldn’t control their bladders after they had their testicles removed. No wonder they stank!

  You’ve smelt worse, she told herself, as she stepped into the building. The traces of magic she’d sensed earlier were gone. And you’ve seen worse too.

  The cathedral was empty. Gwen stared in disbelief as she looked around the giant hall, seeing nothing and no one, apart from a giant statue of the Tsar at the head of the room. She knew she’d seen thousands of monks and soldiers enter the building, yet there was no sign of them. For a crazy moment, she wondered if she’d hallucinated the whole affair before she caught sight of marks on the ground leading towards a door set into the far wall. Inside, there was a stone staircase heading down into the darkness. Bracing herself, altering her magic so she would look like a monk if anyone saw her, Gwen started to make her way down the steps.

  There was a faint glowing light at the bottom, revealing a stone passageway deep under Moscow, leading back towards the centre of town. She paused as she heard the sound of chanting, then froze as she heard something else, a faint whispering right at the edge of her mind. It was chillingly familiar, a noise that had haunted her nightmares since the Battle of London. There were undead somewhere within the complex, far too close for comfort.

  She kept moving down the corridor until she saw a door set within the stone passageway. Inside, a number of soldiers sat on the floor, playing cards or rolling dice, clearly bored and unaware of why they were in the complex. Gwen didn’t know either, as she walked past them, but she was starting to have a very nasty idea. The sound of whispering was growing louder and louder as she kept moving forward, telling her that she was moving towards the undead. And if she found them ...?

  The thought made her shudder. If there was one thing that Britain and France agreed on, it was that necromancy was incredibly dangerous. But Master Thomas had unleashed the undead in the hope of putting an end to the Swing ... the Tsar might be just as prepared to use the undead as the British Government. Maybe the Tsar was mad enough to consider unleashing the undead because no one dared to tell him no. No one had dared tell Master Thomas and the Privy Council that their scheme was madness either.

  I should have, Gwen thought, feeling a flicker of the old guilt. But she hadn’t known what they’d been planning, not in time to stop them. All I could do was go to Jack and beg for help.

  The sound of chanting suddenly grew louder. Gwen pushed herself into the wall, wrapping magic around her, as a line of monks marched past her, chanting in deep tones despite their mutilation. Several of them had their hoods down, revealing unkempt beards and wild eyes that reminded her of the Cossacks who’d escorted the diplomatic party to Moscow. Others had their hoods up so high it was impossible to make out anything, apart from pale white chins. They looked thoroughly sinister.

  Gwen followed them as they made their way down the corridor, hoping to blend in at the rear of the group. The chanting grew louder and louder as they paused outside a large door, then passed into an even larger chamber. It had been carved out of the earth, with a large statue of the Tsar dominating the room; hundreds of monks were kneeling in front of the statue, praying heavily in thick voices. A line of men stood against the far wall, wearing nothing but loincloths; it took Gwen a moment to realise that their hands were cuffed to the railing. Their expressions suggested they were drugged.

  They don’t normally drug and cuff people to get them into church, she thought, with wry amusement. Unless they’re really short on worshippers.

  She sighed, remembering. There had been a preacher outside Cavendish H
all every day for a few weeks, screaming that magicians had been touched by the devil and their mere presence would bring God’s judgement down upon Britain. Gwen would have ignored him if he hadn’t started harassing trainee magicians, some of whom would have retaliated, given half a chance. She’d had to arrange for his transportation to Australia as part of a chain gang. No doubt he was now preaching to the other convicts.

  The monks she’d been following sat down at the rear of the room and joined the chant. Gwen followed, hoping they didn’t ask her to take off the hood. If they did ... they’d see a girl, rather than a monk. She’d have to fight her way out and vanish, knowing that the Russians would have no trouble recognising her and then claiming that the party’s diplomatic immunity was no longer in effect. But instead, the monks just sat and waited. Gwen felt herself starting to get bored rapidly, wondering just what they were doing here. And then a low rustle ran through the room as a man wearing golden robes entered from a side door.

  One by one, the monks fell into prostration, banging their heads on the ground. Gwen hesitated, then forced herself to kowtow too, knowing that the danger of being discovered outweighed the blow to her pride. She hoped the robe stayed in place as she touched her head against the stone floor, then straightened up with the rest of the monks. The man in golden robes took a place between the statue’s legs and started to speak in Russian. His listeners muttered a few words of their own between sentences.

  A prayer, Gwen guessed. But for what?

  The formality sounded like something from the Catholic Church, at least from what she’d been told about the Split with Rome, the Civil War and Reformation. With the Pope a French mouthpiece, England had largely barred Catholics from its shores. Gwen had never met one, as far as she knew. The ones who remained in England tended to keep their heads down and not make waves. They knew how easy it was to be blamed for every little thing that went wrong.

  And then another rustle ran through the room. The Tsar had arrived. He wore black robes, decorated with gold braid and studded with medals. It couldn’t conceal his thin frame, Gwen thought nastily, even though the tailor had clearly tried his best. The Tsar showed no sign of respect or appreciation for the monks, even the ones hastily prostrating themselves in front of him. And, behind him, escorted by a pair of monks ...

  Gwen started. Olivia!

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Olivia ached all over as they pulled her from the carriage after a long and uncomfortable ride, her wrists hurting so much that she doubted she could pick up a pencil, let alone pick a lock like she’d learned to do on the streets. The Russians half-carried her through a large door, down a set of steps and into yet another prison cell. Behind her, Ivan was dragged away in a different direction, causing her to lose sight of him almost at once. Losing him gave her an odd wrench, even though she knew he deserved death or worse. He’d started the whole affair by taking her from Cavendish Hall.

  “Smelly,” a voice said. Olivia looked up to see a woman wearing noblewoman’s clothing, standing in the cell. Her snooty tone could give Lady Mary a run for her money. “And to think you’re supposed to be presented to the Tsar.”

  Olivia glared at her, wishing she had her hands free. One good punch and that aristocratic nose would shatter like an egg. The woman gave her an amused smile, then reached out and touched Olivia’s forehead. Instantly, she felt a strange tingle running through her body, followed by a burst of energy. She felt almost completely refreshed.

  “Magic,” the woman said. She reached for Olivia’s cuffed hands, then slotted a key into the cuffs and undid them. “I suggest you cooperate. It will make this go so much easier.”

  Olivia rubbed her wrists, frantically. “For whom?”

  “I can call the guards and have them strip you by force,” the woman pointed out. She eyed Olivia’s rumpled dress with some amusement. “You’d think they’d know by now that long carriage rides aren’t good for dresses.”

  She leaned backwards, then sighed. “Undress,” she ordered. “You should have time for a wash before the Tsar arrives.”

  Olivia hesitated, then realised she had very little choice. She tore the dress away from her body, taking a crude delight in seeing the noblewoman wince at torn stitches and damaged silks, then walked over to the bathtub. The water was warm, but not scalding hot. Relieved, she climbed in and splashed around, trying to get clean. Her entire body felt mucky after hours in the carriage.

  “Hurry,” the woman said. “You don’t want to be presented to the Tsar naked and dripping wet.”

  “As if they would,” Olivia muttered, but she pulled herself out of the bath anyway. The woman had already found a new dress, just as frilly and ridiculous as the last one; Olivia groaned when she saw it, then started to pull it on. “Why can’t I have trousers and a shirt?”

  “Because you are going to be presented to the Tsar,” the woman said, patiently. “And because I have to make you look nice.”

  “Oh,” Olivia said. “Another prisoner?”

  The brief haunted look in the woman’s eye answered that question. Olivia cursed under her breath, remembering Esther and her sisters, then finished pulling on the dress. Like so many other such dresses, it was remarkably fiddly, almost impossible for one person to don on their own. One of the Trouser Brigade she’d met had called dresses the signs of female enslavement, worse than handcuffs. Having been handcuffed as well as forced to wear a dress, Olivia disagreed, but she had to admit that the dresses came a close second.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, as she struggled with the laces. “Where are we?”

  “Moscow,” the woman said. “I used to live here.”

  Olivia tried to be kind. “What happened?”

  “My husband was caught plotting against the Tsar,” the woman said. Her voice was dead, filled with utter hopelessness. “He was burned alive in front of the Kremlin. My brothers were sent to count trees in Siberia. My children were taken from me, held hostage for my good behaviour. And now I am a maidservant for the Tsar, forced to serve him until the day I die.”

  Olivia shivered. The Russians, it seemed, believed in collective punishment. She wondered, suddenly, what would happen – might have already happened – to Ivan’s relatives. If the Charmer had lost his tongue, who knew what might have been done to his family? They could have been killed or exiled or forced into servitude or ...

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered again.

  “You are to be presented to the Tsar,” the woman said. “You could speak on my behalf.”

  “I don’t think he would listen to me,” Olivia said. If she’d had a chance to integrate herself with Gregory and his monks, she would probably have lost it the first time they read her mind. And they would have read her mind, if she’d claimed to accept the Father Tsar as God. “I’m sorry.”

  She had only just started tying up the bows when there was a sharp knock on the door, which opened moments later to reveal two black-clad men. Behind them, there was another man in a dark suit covered in gold braid. Olivia fancied she would have recognised him as the Tsar even if her assistant hadn’t immediately flung herself to the ground and started banging her head against the cold floor. It didn’t take an expert to realise that the woman was completely terrified.

  “The Necromancer,” the Tsar said. His English was almost completely unaccented. “It is a great pleasure to meet the one responsible for my immortality.”

  It took Olivia a moment to parse out the grammar. “I haven’t done anything yet,” she protested. Those lessons at Cavendish Hall might have been worthwhile after all. “And I won’t do anything for you.”

  The Tsar looked amused, rather than annoyed. “Of course you will,” he said. “I have Charmers to make you do as I wish.”

  Olivia gritted her teeth, feeling hopelessness slide its way into her heart. The Tsar had Charmers; of course the Tsar had Charmers. And no doubt an entire staff practiced at inflicting pain on unwilling victims without causing serious damage. If she defied
him, she would simply be forced into compliance.

  “And you might wish to take notice,” the Tsar added. He stepped over to the noblewoman, still prostrating herself on the floor, and placed his boot on the back of her neck. “I can kill anyone, if I have to.”

  “I grew up on the streets,” Olivia sneered. Cold fury drove her onwards. “You think I haven’t seen death before?”

  The Tsar smiled. “You will make me one of the living dead,” he said. “And then the country will be united under my rule.”

  Olivia stared at him. “It won’t work,” she said. “You’ll die.”

  “Then you will have the pleasure of watching me die,” the Tsar said. He looked down at the woman under his boot, then pushed down, hard. There was a snap and a gasp, then the woman lay still. “But you will not deny me, not now.”

  “The only person I care about is thousands of miles from here,” Olivia said. The streets didn’t encourage long-term friendships, not among boys when one of them was a girl pretending to be a boy. Gwen was about the only person she cared for, even at Cavendish Hall. What did she have in common with the rest of the girls? “You can’t threaten to kill me.”

  “But you can be Charmed,” the Tsar said. “And you will be, if you refuse to serve.”

  He paused. “But I give you my word,” he added. “If you do as you are told, one final time, you will be sent home.”

  Olivia stared at him, hope warring with experience inside her breast. She knew the Tsar would never let her go, not when she knew far too much, but part of her wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that there was a way out. She tried to resist the sudden burst of homesickness, yet it was too strong.

  I’m sorry, Gwen, she thought. I’m sorry.

  She bowed her head.

  “Excellent,” the Tsar said, smiling like a little boy. A dull gong echoed through the complex, then faded away to nothingness. He held out his hand to her, for all the world as if he were inviting her to a dance. “Shall we go?”