The Royal Sorceress

by Christopher Nuttall

  “If they ever came over the water,” Gwen agreed. It had been less than a century since the Young Pretender had attempted to invade England – and the French, to give them credit, had been working on invasion plans for centuries. None of them had ever even come close to success, but the new technologies that Britain had introduced to the world might change that and give the French an advantage. Airships didn’t have to worry about large bodies of water in the way. “What else can you do?”

  Lombardi’s smile widened. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “You can shape thoughts with your mind and infuse them into objects. You can create locks that can only be opened with one specific key. You can create barriers that are impassable, save only to a magician with the right power and skill. You can even create storages for magic, or lights, or even communications devices. A skilled Infuser will be assured of a job for life. There are never enough of them to meet demand.”

  He picked up a second block of wood. “Time to try it again,” he said. “Don’t worry about wasting the raw materials. We go through entire forests in the first few weeks of lessons.”

  Gwen smiled and picked up the wood. This time, she understood instinctively what she had to do. Using the power once had unlocked a door in her mind; this time, it was easy to see the magic and to direct it into the wood. It grew hot alarmingly quickly and Lombardi tore it from her hand, throwing it over the barrier. Gwen watched as it disintegrated in a flash of bright light and shattered, throwing splinters everywhere. The noise alone was deafening. She could see why young male Infusers would like to show off.

  “Impressive,” he said, dryly. “But you have to learn to funnel the magic into the block. Each object can only hold a finite amount of power before it starts to grow hot and explode.”

  Gwen scowled at him. “How does one tell the difference?”

  “Practice,” Lombardi said. He smiled, thinly. “You need practice, practice and more practice. It’s no use learning to run before you can walk.”

  The next hour passed slowly. Gwen went through five more blocks of wood before she finally managed to work out how to sense when an object was approaching capacity. Her power tended to funnel back on itself when time was running out, warning her that she was about to lose control. It was hard to fine-tune it to the point that she could fill a block completely – without causing an explosion – but she was learning. Given time, she promised herself, she would learn how to do it perfectly.

  She smiled, sourly. Cannock had been right about Mover Ball; it did help young magicians to perfect their skills. It had also given him and his friends the chance to extract a little revenge; Gwen hadn’t been able to avoid noticing that they tended to direct the ball at her with astonishing force. Only a combination of luck and good judgement had saved her from worse than aching bones – and she had learned more about her powers than she had thought possible. Flying – levitating, rather – under her own power made up for everything else.

  “It may need more practice tomorrow,” Lombardi admitted, finally. Gwen, who was sweating and uncomfortably aware that she was exhausted, nodded in agreement. A quick wash and a change of clothes, and then she would go to the library and study all afternoon. It wasn’t as if she had anything else to do. “But you’re doing better than I did when I was in training.”

  Gwen looked up, surprised. “I am?”

  “You have experience in using your other talents already and I think that helps,” Lombardi said. “I had to learn to unlock my powers before I could actually use them – and my old tutor used to despair of me at times. He said I’d be nothing better than a grenadier for the army if I didn’t improve.”

  He seemed more confident now, Gwen noted with amusement, even though his forehead was gleaming with sweat. She hadn’t realised that the lesson would be dangerous for the tutor as well as for the pupil, but she’d seen how easy it was to cause an accident. If he hadn’t reacted so quickly, one of the blocks would have exploded in her hand. The consequences didn’t bear thinking about. And so she made up her mind.

  “I’ll practice,” she said. “What are you doing on Friday night?”

  Lombardi blinked. “Nothing,” he said. Unlike some of the other young magicians, he didn’t go out every night to cause havoc in the city. Master Thomas had had to deal with a handful of magicians who had been picked up by the police and, from his expression, Gwen suspected that they weren’t going to be enjoying the next few days. “Study, perhaps.”

  Gwen smiled. “Why don’t you come with me to the Fairweather Ball?”

  He stared at her, a conflicting mixture of emotions playing over his face. “You want me to come with you?”

  “I have to go and I am not going alone,” Gwen said. She had thought about going on her own, even though society would point and talk about it behind her back. It wasn’t decent for women to go to balls on their own – and a young lady who wanted to find a husband would still need to convince a brother or cousin to accompany her to her first ball. “And I think you’d be a good escort.”

  Lombardi hesitated. “I can’t dance,” he admitted, finally. “I have two left feet.”

  “I have problems dancing too,” Gwen said. She held out a hand and clasped his firmly. “Don’t worry about a thing. You’ll have a good time, we’ll dance the night away and then go back home and wake up late the following morning.”

  Part of her mind couldn’t believe how forward she was being. The old Gwen would never have had the confidence to upend protocol and ask a man to walk out with her, rather than wait to be asked. She wasn’t really interested in Lombardi, even though he was a good man, but no one would expect them to announce their engagement the following morning. A young lady Gwen’s age would have taken a succession of escorts to balls by the time she finally became engaged and married. A married woman could only go with her husband, never on her own.

  “If you will have me,” Lombardi said, finally, “I will come with you.”

  He sounded terrified. Gwen had to hold herself under tight control to prevent breaking down into a fit of giggles. “I’ll organise the carriage and everything,” she said. Lombardi would simply be too shy to organise anything. “All you have to do is find something nice to wear, I think. This is the social event of the season, remember? Wear something very nice.”

  Lombardi flushed. “I don’t know what to wear,” he admitted. “I really don’t think…”

  “Don’t,” Gwen advised, mischievously. She patted him on the shoulder and smiled at his expression. He couldn’t have looked more shocked if Gwen had proposed marriage. “Just relax and it will be over before you know it.”

  She waved cheerfully to him as she walked out of the workshop and headed up the nearest flight of stairs. The building was nearly empty of trained magicians in the morning, with most of the tutors taking their students out to practice their skills elsewhere. A skilled magician with an Infusing or Changing talent would be welcome almost anywhere, even one with a weak talent or a lack of control. There was even a need for a person who could make objects explode.

  In her room, she closed the door and stripped down, looking at herself in the mirror. She’d put on a little weight, she noted, and she looked healthier than she’d ever been. There were whispers that magic did help magicians to heal faster than mundane people, but no one – according to Master Thomas and Doctor Norwell – had ever managed to isolate the talent. It stood to reason, Gwen considered, that if such a talent existed, she had to have it – but she didn’t even know where to begin looking for it.

  She smiled to herself as she walked into the bathroom and started to run a bath. If nothing else, her mother would be awfully jealous. She couldn’t hope to receive an invitation to the Fairweather Ball. It would almost make up for having to go. Balls, in her experience, were never fun.

  And she wondered, despite herself, what High Society would make of the new Gwen.

  Chapter Thirteen

  How do I look?”

  Olivia looked at h
im and giggled. Jack was wearing a bright green shirt, golden trousers and a purple hat that came down low over his brow, making it almost impossible to make out his face. Just in case, Jack had taken the time to use makeup to subtly alter his features to the point that he would be almost unrecognisable – if anyone bothered to look past the outfit. It was a very distinctive style.

  “You look,” Olivia said, between giggles, “like a ponca.”

  Jack shrugged as he studied himself in the mirror. Ponca was street-slang for a man who liked other men, rather than women. It wasn’t something Jack had ever considered, but while High Society and the Church despised men who liked men, there were plenty of clubs that catered for homosexuals. London had always been a city of sin, even when it had been ruled by the Romans. Besides, compared to some of the crimes that routinely went unpunished because the culprits were too wealthy or too powerful to be challenged, what was a handful of sodomites? God would punish the guilty.

  “They’ll be looking at the outfit, not at me,” he said, as he picked up the small arsenal he’d amassed over the last couple of days. It took only a few minutes to hide almost everything within the outfit. By now, the Bow Street Runners would know who – and what – they were hunting and a display of magic at the wrong time would mean detection. Jack was confident in his own abilities, but he knew better than to underestimate Master Thomas. “And when I strip, they won’t recognise me.”

  He ruffled Olivia’s hair affectionately. The young girl was starting to come out of her cocoon, thanks to some care from Lucy’s girls and a chance to eat and sleep properly without fear of being robbed or molested. And her contacts with the gangs of street children that ran wild throughout the streets were invaluable. It was astonishing how little attention the high and mighty paid to poor children, unless they discovered that their pocket had been picked while they were distracted with something else. Jack had seen one of the street children beaten to death for stealing a wallet, knowing that intervention would only reveal his presence. After the government had fallen, he promised himself, there would be a better life for all, even the street urchins.

  “Not that it matters right now,” he said. “Have you had the word?”

  Olivia looked up, suddenly serious. “I have,” she said, slowly. “He’s there.”

  “Good,” Jack said. “Let’s go, shall we?”

  Outside, darkness was falling over London, but the streets were as crowded as ever. Jack felt oddly disconnected from the passing civilians as he walked amongst them, hidden behind his ponca outfit. A handful of masked bravos took one look at him before sniggering to themselves, clearly under the impression that Olivia was his catamite. You could get away with anything in the Rookery, if you had power and wealth. The person Jack was planning to visit had tastes that even his fellow aristocrats would find revolting. That, Jack suspected, was part of the appeal.

  He looked at the bravos, one hand falling to the pommel of his sword. They looked back and then drew apart, clearing a path for him through the crowd. Anyone who carried a sword openly, on the streets, had to be very well connected, particularly when the private possession of weapons was forbidden to the poor and downtrodden. A street bravo who attacked an aristocrat would be lucky if he were merely deported. Jack ignored them as they headed off in search of easier prey, leaving Jack and Olivia walking down the streets on their own. They were alone in the midst of thousands of people.

  The building, when they reached it, was utterly unmarked. A handful of men stood outside it, on guard. Jack knew that they had orders not to allow anyone to enter unless they were vouched for by one of the patrons. If the Bow Street Runners – or even the general public – found out what was happening inside the building, the perpetrators would be lynched on the streets. Even the most hardened of Londoners would be revolted. The entire city would be aflame.

  One of the guards stepped up to him as Jack approached the building. Jack stopped, leaned close to the man and whispered in his ear. There was a brief clink as money changed hands, enough money to allow a man to live for some weeks in the Rookery. It was good coin, Jack knew. He’d stolen it himself; just to prove that he could break in and out of noble houses at random. He sometimes wondered how many of his victims even realised that they’d been robbed.

  The guard stepped back. Money talked in the Rookery. There would be no warning as Jack entered the house, nodding for Olivia to wait outside. No one would bother her, not after Jack had established himself as a patron. The establishment was protected by powerful links to the great and the good, with enough material on far too many people to face justice. If some of the information ever got out, it would cause a scandal. And then the entire Establishment would quiver.

  Inside, it was warm enough to pass for India. Jack pushed the second door open and walked into a room. He saw a handful of children waiting for him there, kneeling on cushions and wearing outfits that revealed far too much of their bodies. The oldest couldn’t have been any more than ten years old. Someone had painted their faces and styled their hair until they looked almost angelically beautiful. It was a beauty intended to attract the worst kind of person. He shuddered as he caught the eyes of a young boy, with long fluttering eyelashes. The boy gave him a smile that almost sent Jack fleeing in horror.

  Jack had lived in France. He’d seen things that would shock the more straight-laced British public. And he had spent time and money in brothels, enjoying prostitutes from all over the world. But this was the worst kind of perversion. None of the girls were sexually mature, which meant that they would burn out quickly after they were broken to their task. Their owners would throw them out onto the streets or sell them onwards, knowing that there was no longer any money to be made from their bodies.

  A door opened and a middle-aged woman looked out, her face puzzled. She caught sight of Jack and stared at him, unsure of who he was or what he was doing in her building. Jack didn’t give her time to react; he lunged forward, picked her up with his bare hands and slammed her against the wall. She let out a yelp that tailed off when he tightened his grip on her throat. If she intended to call for help, he was quite prepared to snap her neck and search the building personally. God alone knew how many famous people had secret ties to the building.

  “I’m here for one person,” Jack growled, pushing his face right up against his victim’s nose. “Where is Lord Fitzroy?”

  The woman stared at him. “I can’t,” she said, finally. Jack winced as the smell assailed his nostrils. She’d lost control of her bowels. The children were giggling, but none of them had moved from their position. They’d been trained to behave, rewarded with sweets and punished with beatings that left their skin unmarked. “He’ll kill me…”

  Jack thrust his face up against hers, allowing a little magic to illuminate his eyes. “I hate you,” he hissed. “I want to break you. I want to show you exactly how these children have suffered. I want to boil your blood inside your body. And if you don’t tell me where he is, I promise you that you will die in the most horrific manner I can devise…”

  The woman recoiled from his eyes. “I’ll show you,” she said, desperately. Tears were running down her cheeks. He’d shocked her far worse than he’d dared hope. “He’s upstairs…”

  Jack followed her up the stairs, magic at the ready. The corridors were cramped, barely large enough for a single man to walk with his head bowed. He watched as the woman led him past a dozen doors until they reached an unmarked hatch, and then stopped. Jack smiled as she told him that Lord Fitzroy was inside, and then slammed a pulse of magic into her head. Her lifeless body hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. He’d wanted to make her suffer, but there had been no time for indulging himself. There would be time for that later.

  He opened the door and stepped into a warm room. Lord Fitzroy looked up in alarm from his bath, which he was sharing with three naked girls, all well below marriageable age. Jack fought down the urge to vomit as he closed the door behind him, not taking his eyes off L
ord Fitzroy. The Lord was reaching desperately for something hidden in his clothes. Jack smiled, despite the cold hatred spreading through his mind, as he saw the pistol. Lord Fitzroy hadn’t entirely trusted the establishment to guarantee his safety, after all.

  “I wouldn’t bother,” he said, as Lord Fitzroy took aim. His hand was shaky, so shaky that Jack wondered if he – the target – wasn’t the safest man in the room. “That really isn’t going to hurt me.”

  Lord Fitzroy fired. The children yelped as the bullet came to a halt in front of Jack, caught by his magical field. Jack took a step forward, and then another, ignoring the second and third shots. After that, he yanked the weapon out of the Lord’s hand with magic and threw it across the room. A second later, he picked up the girls, more gently, and put them down beside the piles of clothing. They looked…traumatized.

  Jack smiled at them. “Do you like this man?”

  They shook their heads, almost in unison. “Neither do I,” Jack said. He grinned at them, enjoying the feeling of doing something good for once. “Get dressed and then I will take you out of here.”

  He turned back to Lord Fitzroy and chuckled nastily as the Lord rose to his feet, watery foam washing off his body and revealing his nakedness. The Lord was holding a knife in his hand, although Jack had no idea where he’d stashed it, probably in the pile of clothing that had concealed his pistol. Jack gestured with a hand, pulled the knife out of Lord Fitzroy’s hand, and angled it back towards the Lord. Lord Fitzroy had no time to scream as the knife slashed at his genitals and cut them right off. Bright red blood flowed from the wound as he staggered and fell back into the water. Jack stepped forward, almost casually, and removed his sword from his scabbard.