Necropolis

by Christopher Nuttall

It was, she decided, the best place to start.

  Chapter Twenty

  The sense of unreality grew stronger as Gwen made her way up the stairs, every sense alert for guardsmen or even passing servants. If a manor the size of her parents’ house had at least a dozen servants, ranging from butlers to footmen and maids, a palace the size of the Winter Palace should have hundreds of servants. But she saw no one as she crept forward, heading towards the centre of Russian government. There should be guards or servants everywhere, if only because there were two foreign missions hosted within the palace. Instead, there was no one.

  She paused outside a set of locked doors, then carefully touched them with her bare fingers, trying to peer beyond them with her senses. There was no one on the far side, as far as she could tell, but she cloaked herself as best as she could before she unlocked the doors using magic. The doors clicked open, revealing another passage as ornate as the previous corridors, but completely devoid of portraits of famous Russians. Gwen hesitated, knowing that she would be committed the moment she stepped through the doors, then walked forward, pulling her magic around her like a protective shroud. As long as she was very careful, it would be extremely hard for any guards or servants to see her.

  Inside, the complex was almost disappointing. There was an endless series of offices, some locked and sealed, others left open, all barren and empty. Gwen slipped inside one of them and glanced around, only to discover that the tables and drawers had been emptied by a previous occupant. It was impossible to be sure, but she couldn’t help thinking that the Russians had transferred most of the bureaucrats and civil servants who actually ran their government elsewhere. Maybe, given the constant state of ferment outside the Winter Palace, they’d been transported somewhere more secure.

  The British Government did that during the Swing, she thought, as she left the office and continued to creep down the corridor. But Jack managed to catch or kill many of the civil servants anyway.

  She froze as she heard someone muttering in Russian ahead of her, then sneaked down the corridor and peered through the door. Nine men in hooded robes were kneeling on the floor, their backs to Gwen, their eyes locked on a portrait of the Tsar. It was an idealised portrait, Gwen couldn’t help noticing; it showed none of the weaknesses of the real Tsar. And the men – the monks, she guessed – were practically worshipping the image. Gwen had never been very religious, not when practically everyone had called her a devil-child in her youth, but the thought of praying to a living man was disconcerting. The Tsar was hardly Jesus Christ.

  Carefully, she walked past the prayer room and into a much larger office, dominated by a throne and a gilded table. Gwen guessed that it belonged to the Tsar; the room was not only more ornate than any of the previous rooms, but there were no other chairs in the compartment. Everyone else would have to stand or kneel in the presence of their lord and master. Gritting her teeth, she slipped over to the Throne and frowned as she saw a set of maps on the table. She couldn’t read the writing on the sheets of paper, but it was clear that they showed Russia, Central Asia and the Ottoman Empire.

  She sucked in her breath sharply as she saw large arrows gliding down from Moscow towards the Turks, passing through the mountains as if there were no natural barriers. It looked odd; Gwen knew little about military logistics, but she did know that supplying armies in Central Asia was an ongoing problem for both British and Russian officers. They’d agreed to leave Afghanistan as a buffer zone because neither side wanted to expend effort bringing the state into their sphere of influence. But the lines on the map seemed to defy any kind of military logic. The armies it showed didn’t seem to have to eat or sleep or take notice of natural barriers.

  Cold ice ran down her spine as she realised what it portended. An army of the undead could march endlessly, walking over mountains or through rivers ... and expand along the way, as they overran villages and towns, bringing their inhabitants into their ranks. It wouldn’t even need to be controlled, she suspected; the Russians could just point them in the right direction and let them march all the way to Istanbul. God knew the Russians had never given up hope of capturing the city – and, with it, control over the passage from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean. An army of the undead would allow them to overrun the Turks, no matter how tactically competent the Turks had become. And then they could just go onwards.

  She swore under her breath as she looked at the other maps. Red lines, giant arrows showing unrealistic troop movements, struck south into Persia and east into India. Gwen had never been to India, but she knew from Sir Charles just how many souls were under British rule in the subcontinent. They’d be killed, only to rise again as part of the undead, an unstoppable tidal wave making its way ever eastwards until it reached China and the very Far East. And by then ...

  Feeling sick, Gwen glanced through the remaining documents, hoping they’d show her how the Russians intended to control such a large force. She couldn’t doubt that they had Olivia, not now, but so many undead would be an intelligent and uncontrollable force in their own right. How could they raise so many without risking their own destruction? They had to be insane ... Gwen shuddered as she recalled what she’d seen of the Tsar, remembering his manic expression. He was mad, she realised, and willing to do whatever it took to preserve his power ...

  She froze as she heard someone outside, walking along the corridor. Quickly, she glanced around, then darted behind the curtains. The temperature dropped rapidly, revealing that one of the windows was open. Gwen shivered, despite herself, wondering why the Russians had left one window open in the darkness. And then she heard someone come into the office and cursed mentally. If her senses weren’t playing tricks on her, the Russian was suspicious. Had she made a noise someone had heard? Or did the Russians have their own magicians monitoring the complex? Gritting her teeth, knowing she didn’t dare let herself be discovered, she sneaked over to the window, levitated herself up and out into the cold night air. Behind her, she heard a rustle as someone pulled the curtains aside.

  It was bitterly cold outside, Gwen realised, as she rose upwards as quickly as possible. In her experience, no one ever looked up, particularly when they didn’t know they were chasing a magician. She heard a thumping sound as the man closed the window firmly, then pulled herself all the way up to the rooftop. Oddly, it was unguarded; she settled down onto the roof and caught her breath, then looked out over the city. St Petersburg was as dark and cold as the grave.

  It was nothing like London, she realised, as she drew on her magic to warm herself. London had plenty of gaslights, even in the most deprived areas. The Swing had encouraged the Privy Council to do something for the poor, after all, although Gwen suspected it was mainly cosmetic. St Petersburg, on the other hand, was dark. She hesitated, then levitated herself high up into the air. There were some lights on the fortresses, she saw, but almost all of the city was dark, a silent brooding mass. But, below her, the soldiers continued their patrols of the palace grounds.

  She dropped back down again, pulling her magic around her protectively. In the darkness, she would be almost completely invisible, unless the Russians got very lucky. She lowered herself down past the government complexes on the highest floor, then found a window she could unlock with magic. Inside, it was almost blissfully warm. Gwen sagged in relief, then froze as she heard someone stepping into the room. She looked up to see a Russian guardsman, staring at her. He barked at her in Russian, then reached for her arm.

  Gwen hesitated. Killing the guard, or stunning him, would be easy, but his superiors would notice someone was missing. And yet she didn’t dare let him take her prisoner. At the very least, Lord Standish would have some hard questions to answer ... and he might simply decide to hand her over to the Russians, if he thought she had acted badly. She reached for her Charm, then spoke a single order, over and over again.

  “You have to drink,” she said, in badly-accented Russian. Romulus had helped her learn a few phrases, but he hadn’t taught her a
nything like enough. “You have to drink.”

  The guard swayed under the impact of her Charm. Gwen swore under her breath as she realised it wasn’t working properly, then tried to use both Charm and Talking at the same time, pushing the command into his mind. Master Thomas had used it once to influence – to control – Gwen herself at a distance, but it was a power she had steadfastly refused to try to develop. Feeling her own body turned into a puppet still gave her nightmares. The guard swayed again, then turned and left the room, his thoughts set on drinking himself into a stupor. Gwen had heard enough to know that there was alcohol everywhere in Russia and that everyone, from the highest to the lowest, drank every day. The guard wouldn’t remember her ... or his superiors would dismiss it as a drunken hallucination.

  She looked down at her pale hands, wondering if she’d crossed a line. Charm was one thing, but Charm could be resisted, its influence detected and neutralised. This ... was something new, a power born of combining two separate aspects of magic. If she worked with it, played with it, learned how to use it ... what could she not do? The power to control people at will ... it sounded like a dream, but it would become a nightmare. And there was no one she could ask for advice. Master Thomas was dead and everyone else who heard the truth would see her as a potential threat. And to think they thought Charmers were bad!

  Gwen hesitated, then walked to the door and slipped outside, glancing around to try to locate herself. If she was right, the ballroom was down the corridor and her rooms were some distance upwards. She turned and started to walk, wondering if Raechel had made it back to the room already. It took nearly twenty minutes for her to find the right room and slip inside, only to discover that it was empty. Raechel’s bags had been placed neatly on the floor, ready for Gwen to open and empty. A quick check revealed that someone had searched the bags, pawing through Raechel’s clothes, while trying to find anything incriminating. Gwen had to smile. Unless they saw her using her powers, they wouldn’t be able to tell who she was ... and she’d brought nothing with her.

  She ducked into the bathroom and turned on the taps, then recovered a new towel from the railing along with the dressing gown. Her body still felt cold, despite her magic; she climbed into the bathtub as soon as there was enough water and allowed it to heat her body thoroughly, leaving her feeling tired and drained. The Russians had put a second bed in the room, one barely large enough for her; she climbed into it and closed her eyes. It was morning when she awoke.

  “You snore,” Raechel called over from the giant bed. “I couldn’t sleep because of the rumbling thunder.”

  Gwen glowered at her. “I do not snore,” she said, as someone knocked on the door for the second time. “And what time did you get in?”

  She pulled herself out of bed, wrapped the gown around herself and opened the door. A pair of very pale maids stood there, each one carrying a large silver tray of food. Gwen watched as the two girls, both thinner than Olivia had been when they’d first met, placed the trays on the table, then withdrew. She couldn’t help being reminded of one of her father’s friends, a money-lender who specialised in loans to the aristocracy.

  “That smells good,” Raechel said. “Do you think we’re meant to eat it all ourselves?”

  Gwen frowned. It was vanishingly rare for a maid to eat with her mistress ... but even if she was, there was enough food for at least four people in front of them. Raechel wasn’t that big an eater, one of the few points she had in common with other girls of her age. Gwen ate more than her, but Gwen needed to eat to power her magic. She hadn’t realised, last night, just how hungry she’d become.

  “Eat what you can,” she said, placing bacon and eggs – and something she didn’t recognise – onto a plate and passing it to Raechel. “You never know when you will be able to eat again.”

  Raechel eyed her. “Your experience talking?”

  Gwen nodded, then started to eat herself. The food tasted good, although there were odd flavours that suggested the cooks weren’t entirely used to cooking English food. She ate enough bacon and eggs to make Raechel give her another look, then stood upright and checked to make sure they weren’t being watched. When she was sure, she leaned forward to whisper in Raechel’s ear.

  “I have to go speak to someone,” she said. “If anyone asks, say you got sick of the sight of me and told me to get lost for a few hours.”

  “That’s not much for me to do,” Raechel complained.

  “But it’s important,” Gwen said. She leaned forward and surprised herself by giving the older girl a hug. “I need an excuse to be out and about.”

  She dressed rapidly, then checked her watch. It was nearly twelve o’clock; she’d overslept quite badly. If she’d been with Janet and Romulus ... shaking her head, she slipped out of Raechel’s room and headed down towards the rest of the diplomatic suite. Lady Standish was chatting to a Russian woman who seemed to speak perfect English, while Janet was sorting out her clothes and Romulus was nowhere to be seen. The remaining diplomats, apart from Sir Sidney, were gathered in the smoking room. Gwen left them before they could start demanding food and drink, then headed into the next room. Sir Sidney was standing there, a glass of brandy in his hand.

  “Gwen,” he greeted her. One hand tapped an ear. “How is the Young Mistress?”

  Gwen took the hint and reached out with her senses, trying to determine if they were unobserved. It certainly seemed that way, so she relaxed as best as she could without letting go of her enhanced awareness. This wasn’t the airship, where they could be assured of relative privacy. There were any number of people who might overhear their words.

  “She’s fine,” she said, shortly. It was suddenly hard to concentrate; her awareness told her, all too clearly, that Sir Sidney was male. “And you?”

  “Lord Standish met with the Tsar this morning,” Sir Sidney said. “The Tsar had an offer for him. In exchange for a free hand against Persia – not the Ottomans: Persia – the Tsar will stay out of the war between Britain and France.”

  Gwen considered it, recalling the maps she’d seen. “That would put the Ottomans in a bind,” she said. “If the Russians controlled Persia as well as their holdings in the Balkans, they’d be able to attack the Turks on two fronts.”

  “I’m glad you can see that,” Sir Sidney said. “Because Lord Standish is very tempted.”

  “It’s a looming disaster,” Gwen said, and rapidly explained the maps she’d found during her exploration of the uppermost levels of the palace. “They’ve definitely got plans to use the undead.”

  Sir Sidney frowned. “Are you sure? It wouldn’t be the first time some civilian drew up completely impractical operational plans.”

  “The Tsar was a soldier,” Gwen pointed out. “He’d know better.”

  Sir Sidney sighed, loudly. “There are some very stupid officers out there,” he said. “Men who purchased their commissions, then left their regiments in the hands of their juniors while they partied all night.” He shook his head. “The Tsar is planning to go to Moscow,” he added, “and we’re invited.”

  Gwen rubbed her tired eyes. “Why?”

  “Good question,” Sir Sidney said. “He may feel safer there.”

  “Try to keep Lord Standish from making any stupid agreements,” Gwen said, recalling how much trouble the Airship Treaty had caused Lord Mycroft. If Lord Standish made an agreement that compromised Turkey so badly, Parliament would have no choice but to reject it ... thus compromising the authority of other diplomats. “The lines on the map came from Moscow ...”

  She froze as she sensed someone – Lady Standish – making her way towards the drawing room. For a moment, she found herself utterly unsure of what to do. Gwen the Maid should not be talking to Sir Sidney, certainly not alone. She couldn’t afford to be caught, yet she was too tired to hide herself ... and she had to let the woman draw a reasonable explanation for why Gwen was there.

  “Lady Standish is coming,” she said, and grabbed Sir Sidney before she could t
hink better of her mad idea. His eyes went very wide as she pulled him close. “I’m sorry.”

  She kissed his lips, firmly. It felt odd to start a kiss, something she’d never done in her life ... hell, it wasn’t ladylike. And yet, it brought a strange sense of freedom, a sense that she might have enjoyed it if things were different. She felt him respond, his arms going around her ...

  And then Lady Standish burst into the room.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Gwen!” Lady Standish snapped. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Gwen jumped back from Sir Sidney, schooling her features into fear. If she’d been a normal maid in London, she would have been blamed for everything, even if Sir Sidney had forced himself on her. It was yet another problem she knew she would have to try to fix, somehow, even though she wasn’t sure where to begin. The upper classes found it so much easier to blame everything from wanton behaviour to outright rape on the lower classes.

  “Get away from him,” Lady Standish snapped. “You utter ...”

  “You will have to excuse her,” Sir Sidney drawled, in his best aristocratic manner. “The fault was mine.”

  Lady Standish rounded on him. “My husband will be hearing about this,” she thundered, angrily. “Luring young ladies into lives of sin!”

  She caught Gwen’s arm and swung her round. “You represent my household,” she added, then lifted a hand and slapped Gwen across the face. “Your actions bring shame upon me!”

  Gwen glared at her, feeling magic pulsing under her skin. It would be easy, so easy, to kill the woman right there and then. A tiny pinch in Lady Standish’s brain and she’d collapse, leaving no traces of anything to suggest it hadn’t been a natural death. Or she could Charm her into complete and total submission. Or ... she controlled her temper with an effort, running through meditative tricks to make the pain fade away. She couldn’t afford to blow her cover, not yet. But when she did ...