The Royal Sorceress

by Christopher Nuttall

  “I wish I had time to make you suffer,” he said, as he pulled Lord Fitzroy’s body out of the bath. “I’ll have to leave that to the many thousand minions of Satan.”

  He cut Lord Fitzroy’s head off with one stroke of the blade. He’d designed the sword himself, using magic to sharpen the finest cutting blade in the world. Swords were useless against magic and few people expected a magician to carry a sword, but Jack had seen advantages in concealing his powers. The headless corpse fell back into the water, blood streaming out into the pool, but Jack ignored it. Instead, he wrapped the head in his cloak and turned back to the children. They were all clad in short shirts designed for adults, shirts that came all the way down to their knees.

  “Come on,” he said. The children were staring at him, their eyes wide. They were thinner than he had expected, although it shouldn’t have surprised him. The owners of the establishment wouldn’t want to feed them more than the bare necessities. “It’s time to go.”

  Leaving the body behind, he went from door to door, peeking into the private rooms. A number were empty, but a handful held others who had been invited to the perverted establishment. Jack killed them before they had any chance of escape, adding the abused children to his small following. Before he knew it, he had twenty-two half-naked children, girls and boys, following him, looking up at him worshipfully. The sensation of actually helping people, even in a small way, made him feel proud. He’d accomplished something concrete for tiny lives, the lives that really mattered.

  He knew why the establishment existed. The children hadn’t been kidnapped; there would have been no need to steal them from their families. They would have been sold by their parents, who chose to believe promises that their children would be well cared for – and that they would receive good positions. Maybe they knew the truth – maybe they guessed at the truth – but it wouldn’t have been enough to convince them otherwise. The money from the pimps and their masters would make the difference between surviving another winter, or the entire family dying in the cold.

  It was far from the only place where children were abused. In the workhouses, children as young as three years old were put to work, fed little more than gruel and flogged savagely if they so much as faltered in their work. There was no shortage of replacements when they died – and many did – and those that rebelled often found themselves broken, or cast out onto the streets to die. Jack had seen it all, back when his eyes had been opened, and he hadn’t been able to look away. Perhaps his first plan had failed, perhaps he had been forced to flee to France while Master Thomas and the Dragoons thought him dead, but he hadn’t given up. And maybe this time he would genuinely change things for the better.

  He herded the children down the stairs and into the lobby. Two guards were standing there, eying the children with half-puzzled, half-disgusted eyes. Jack cut them both down before they could react, cursing them as their dead bodies fell to the ground. They’d known what had been happening here, behind shuttered windows and locked doors, and they’d guarded it, rather than raising the alarm. Maybe they had felt that they had had little choice – the visitors to the building had powerful connections and would never be brought to justice – but Jack didn’t care. They were just as guilty as the men who came to the building to force themselves into prepubescent girls or fondle young boys. They disgusted him.

  “Get some proper clothes,” he ordered the children, as he checked through the final two rooms. Unsurprisingly, there was very little suitable for children, making it harder for them to run away. He was mildly surprised that they hadn’t been chained like animals. There were brothels where the girls were tied down with their legs spread, making it utterly impossible to resist their customers. It was an old trick for breaking a girl who showed any sign of resistance. “Pull those cloaks around you – hurry.”

  He looked outside into the darkened streets, waving to the guards. They came up to him – and he burned them both down, nodding to Olivia as she appeared from an alleyway. The remaining guards would be alerted soon enough; by then, they had to be well away from the building. If Master Thomas was on watch – and if he put two and two together – he might realise what had happened. But then, whatever his other faults, Master Thomas wouldn’t have patronised the brothel. He might have been a reactionary, using his powers to impede change, yet he did have his limits.

  “Take them back to the house and introduce them to Lucy,” Jack ordered. He wanted to escort the children personally, but he had another mission. It might have been better to leave the children to die, yet he couldn’t bring himself to do that, not when they were innocents. They hadn’t volunteered to serve in the brothel. “I’ll be along after I’ve finished with the head.”

  He glanced down at his cloak, which still held Lord Fitzroy’s head. Waiting until Olivia and her string of followers had vanished into the darkness, he turned back into the building and shaped a thought with his mind. Fire leapt from his fingertips and scorched the side of the building, flaring down the corridors and into the lobby. Expensive carpets, imported from Persia, caught fire rapidly, incinerating the wooden walls and paintings someone had hung above the carpets. The building itself caught fire seconds later, leaving the bodies and the evidence to be consumed by the flames. Jack stepped backwards, knowing that the fire could burn him, and used his magic to lift himself up to the nearest rooftop. The fire was already spreading out of control.

  A clanging sound in the distance announced the approach of London’s fire brigade. The city was justly proud of its fire-fighting service – it hadn’t been that long since the Great Fire of London – but they wouldn’t be able to save the brothel. They’d be lucky if they managed to prevent the fire from spreading to the buildings next door, even if they did have the world’s most modern underground water supply to draw on. They might even have to start dynamiting the nearby buildings, just to prevent the fire from spreading out to consume much of the city. Magic might have started the blaze, but no magic Jack knew would be able to quench it.

  Jack took one last look at the roaring flames and then turned and started to make his way along the rooftops. It was a long walk to Fairweather Hall. And then, he promised himself silently, the oppressors of the masses would know the meaning of the word fear.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fairweather Hall was beautifully illuminated against the darkness, glowing with magic lanterns. Gwen watched as the carriage slowly drew closer and closer to the stairs leading into the building. By long custom, the guests would be expected to leave their carriages one by one, entering the building and mingling with the other guests once inside. The host and hostess would be waiting for them, allowing them the chance to greet each of the guests personally before they entered the ballroom.

  She smiled, wondering what they would make of her. It had taken her hours to decide what to wear, if only because of her changed status. Finally, she had decided to wear a black dress, even though it might cause offence; young ladies were not supposed to wear black unless there had been a death in the family. But black was the colour worn by the sorcerers and Gwen knew that, one day, she would be the Royal Sorceress. Black was her colour. She’d braided her golden hair – shorter now, because long hair tended to get in the way when she was practicing with magic – and tied it up in a ponytail. Lombardi had stared at her when he’d seen her, suggesting at least one person was impressed. Gwen hoped that Lord and Lady Fairweather would feel the same way.

  The carriage reached the steps and Lombardi got out, holding up one hand to help Gwen climb down. He looked terrified, but he was still managing to remember his manners. Gwen rewarded him with a smile as they started to climb up the steps towards the waiting Lord and Lady. There was no sign of Master Thomas or anyone else who might perform introductions and the last time Gwen had seen either of them had been when she’d been a child. They knew Lombardi, though, and appeared to take no notice of Gwen’s dress. She was almost disappointed.

  Inside, they were greeted by t
he sound of music and happy laughter. Young couples were already out on the dance floor, waltzing to a tune Gwen vaguely recognised. There would be no formal dances for at least an hour, allowing the newcomers a chance to get used to dancing and overcome their nerves. Gwen looked up at Lombardi, who had fixed a slightly pained expression on his face, and smiled. He looked as if he was on the verge of bolting at any second. She held onto his arm gently and pulled him onto the dance floor. He seemed to know almost nothing about dancing – from where he should put his hands without violating protocol to how to move with the tune – but Gwen was patient. She had never tried to teach anyone how to dance before, but she had had lessons as a child and knew the basic steps. All the dancers really had to do was move with the music and remember not to move too quickly or too slowly.

  The ballroom was massive, large enough to impress even Gwen. There seemed to be hundreds of guests, the great and the good of London and the British Empire, gathered in one place. She caught sight of a pair of dark-skinned representatives from India – probably from one of the Princely States – and even a handful of Colonials from America, enjoying the music as much as anyone else. But then, the Colonial Government knew that it had to cleave to the British Crown. No one wanted a second war or even a bloody uprising that would have to be crushed by the Redcoats. She grinned as two other couples linked hands with them as the music changed, pulling them into a circle. Lombardi was grinning as well, his nerves forgotten in the excitement; Gwen watched as they exchanged partners in a waltz that would eventually see them meeting again. Who knew? Perhaps she had created a social animal in a shy and retiring young magician. But she still had to prompt him to pick up a dance card for her.

  Soon, the music came to a halt and the dancers headed for the side of the room. A trumpet sounded, calling their attention to the stairs leading up into the mansion. Gwen watched in silence as Lord and Lady Fairweather descended, arm in arm, and came onto the dance floor, announcing the start of the formal dancing. She took Lombardi’s arm and pulled him out into the gathering crowd as the band struck up a new tune. The leader called out instructions for the first few steps and then sat back, leaving the dancers to manage on their own. Gwen held Lombardi’s hand and took him through the steps. Despite some of the glances cast in her direction, she found that she was enjoying the dancing. It was almost too soon when the tune came to an end and a new one began. This time, she found dozens of partners coming up to write their names in her dance card. She made sure that Lombardi had a partner and then threw herself back into the dancing, resolving not to sit out a single dance.

  An hour later, her body aching even as she felt surprisingly good, she left her current partner and headed for the stairs to answer the call of nature. Outside the ballroom, the sound of music was curiously muted, giving the mansion an eerie atmosphere that bothered Gwen more than she wanted to admit. A couple of rooms were occupied with young men and women testing the limits of their chaperon’s patience, something that would cause a major scandal if they were caught. Gwen ignored them and headed onwards, searching for the toilets. They were never far away from the ballroom. She stopped outside one unmarked door and was about to push it open when she heard a voice coming through the wood. It was Master Thomas – and he sounded angry. Good girls didn’t eavesdrop, Gwen knew, but she couldn’t resist. Besides, ever since Lord Burley had been assassinated, Master Thomas been consumed with something that he’d refused to talk to her about, even though she was his designated successor.

  “It has to be him,” he was saying, flatly. “Who else could it have been?”

  “This is a pretty rum show,” a second voice – Lord Mycroft, Gwen thought – said. “I was under the impression he was dead.”

  “We never found the body,” Master Thomas snapped. “It is quite possible that he managed to escape in the confusion and made it out of the country. The French or the Spanish would be pleased to hide him in exchange for services rendered.”

  “So he’s become a traitor as well as an anarchist,” a third voice said. It was lazy, almost languid. Gwen didn’t recognise the speaker’s voice at all. “I don’t think he had much to offer our friends across the water.”

  “Of course he had something to offer them,” Master Thomas said. He sounded like a teacher explaining something to a particularly dim-witted child. “There is one service he could perform for his paymasters that they couldn’t find anywhere else. And he would have paid that price willingly. His cause is all.”

  “He’s a Master,” Lord Mycroft said. “I have information that King Louis would gladly part with half of his Kingdom to win the services of a Master. The French have yet to breed one from a French mother.”

  “The French will never gain the services of a French-born Master,” the mystery voice sneered. “Charles Darwin has proven that to my satisfaction.”

  “Darwin’s theories may not hold water,” Master Thomas warned. “He could only theorise.”

  “His theories are beyond question,” the mystery voice insisted.

  “Of course they are,” Lord Mycroft said, dryly. “They support your political position.”

  “The only other theory we have is Perivale’s Sleeping Plague,” the mystery voice said. “Do you believe that his theory holds any validity?”

  “It is a capital mistake to speculate without facts,” Lord Mycroft said. “We have too few facts to speculate. We are also missing the important detail – our old…friend has returned to London and presumably made contact with his old allies.”

  “We scattered the anarchists five years ago,” the mystery voice said. “We taught them a damn good lesson.”

  “And someone with Master-level powers killed Lord Burley,” Master Thomas said. “There have only ever been five Masters – and only one of them remains unaccounted for.”

  “Five that we know about,” another voice said. “How old were you when you discovered your powers? How many Masters have lived and died without ever knowing what they were?”

  Master Thomas snorted. “How many unknown Masters would have the inclination and the training to cause havoc in London?”

  Gwen felt a shiver running up her spine. Master Thomas had told her that two of the previous Master Magicians were dead – and the third was missing, presumed dead. But what if he hadn’t died after all? And…who was he? What had happened five years ago?

  “Which leads to another point,” Lord Mycroft said. “What about Lady Gwen?”

  “She should have been sent to the farms,” the mystery voice sneered. Gwen felt another chill at the cold loathing in the voice. “She does not conduct herself in the manner befitting a young lady.”

  “We are not asking her to conduct herself in the manner of a young lady,” Master Thomas said, mildly. “And before you raise the issue of her slapping your nephew, the young fool did attempt to Charm her into undressing herself in front of him.”

  “But…”

  Master Thomas ignored the interruption. “There is also the minor detail that she remains too important to be sent to the farms,” he added. “We need her, desperately. We cannot afford to waste her on a program of dubious value. She is learning magic quicker than I had believed possible and should soon be ready to start coming out on patrol with me. Any small displays of unladylike behaviour are hardly a problem…unless one of you happens to be hiding a Master up his sleeve?”

  There was a pause. “I thought not,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind…”

  Gwen heard footsteps and stepped away from the door, walking down the corridor as fast as she could without running. The door opened behind her and someone came out, heading down in the other direction, away from her. Gwen kept walking until she found the toilets and finally answered the call of nature, her mind spinning as she tried to digest what she’d heard. Who was the mystery voice? Who was the mystery Master? And what were the farms?

  One of the questions, she decided, should be easy to answer. The mystery voice had Lord Blackburn as a nephew. It
would be easy to look him up in Who’s Who. And then…what?

  Loud cheers greeted her as she re-entered the ballroom; cheers not for her, but for Admiral Lord Nelson and Lady Emma. Lord Nelson, who had won a glorious victory against the Barbary Pirates and forced the rulers of the Barbary States to refrain from plundering British shipping, was still the toast of the town, even though it had been nearly twenty years since he’d last taken command of a naval fleet and gone out to wage war on Britain’s long list of enemies. Lady Emma, if Gwen’s mother had been right, was actually his second wife – and he was her second husband. They’d been having a long affair before her husband passed away; they’d even produced a child out of wedlock. Nothing illustrated the hypocrisy at the heart of the British Empire more than Lord Nelson. Few would dare to point a finger at England’s greatest admiral, even the chattering wives of London.

  She made her way over to Lombardi, who had just finished another dance with a girl Gwen vaguely recognised. The girl gave her a sharp look as she invited Lombardi to dance, a look that suggested that she’d had her eye on him as a possible husband. Gwen wasn’t too surprised; Lombardi might be a third son, but he was from a powerful family that had thousands of pounds in the bank. A young lady of noble blood and impoverished family couldn’t hope to find a better match. And who knew? Perhaps she would make him happy.

  Lord Nelson was being pressed into service to lead the latest dance, a march that reminded her of some of the taller tales of military service whispered by the other magicians at Cavendish Hall. Lady Emma, Gwen noted absently, was enormously fat, so much so that the darker side of her mind wondered how they managed to sleep together. But maybe it was love, or maybe they stuck together because they knew that no one else would have them. Or maybe Nelson had his fun with the maids while his wife looked on helplessly.

  Gwen followed the dance steps carefully, holding tightly onto Lombardi as they went through the motions. Partners were exchanged and exchanged again as the band changed the tune, forcing the dancers to react quickly to stay in the dance. A handful of couples even left the dance floor, preferring to take a drink from the tables and exchange catty remarks with the other wallflowers. Gwen knew that most of the real business would be transacted behind closed doors, with powerful family members striking deals with their allies – or even with their enemies. This ball would be particularly significant, if only because much of the London nobility was in attendance. She wouldn’t have been too surprised to see the King himself.