Necropolis

by Christopher Nuttall

  She stared down at her hands, guilt running through her voice. “I was angry at her for spoiling my game,” she admitted. “It never occurred to me that she might have a point. Instead ... something cut loose within me, the first surge of magic. I ... I humiliated her so completely that she never recovered.”

  Olivia looked up, sharply. “What did you do?”

  “I Charmed her,” Gwen said. She paused, long enough for Olivia to tell that she was debating if she should admit the full truth. “I made her do things.”

  She shook her head. “It took me years to understand just how badly I’d hurt her,” she added, slowly. “My magic ... I thought it would help my parents love me. Instead, everyone called me a devil-child. Even now, the guilt gnaws at me from time to time.”

  Olivia reached out and squeezed Gwen’s hand. “You could find her now,” she said. “I bet you have enough money to make amends.”

  “She died in a bedlam, three years ago,” Gwen said. “Her mind broke, eventually. And how much of her losing her mind was my fault?”

  “You didn’t know what you were doing,” Olivia said.

  “I was six,” Gwen said. “I know I didn’t know what I was – or what I could do. But that doesn’t stop me feeling guilty over my actions, however accidental.”

  She patted Olivia on the head. “I can’t undo what I did to her,” she added. “All I can do is make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Olivia sighed. “But you didn’t kill millions of people ...”

  “I was guiltier than you,” Gwen said. “You didn’t want any of this to happen.”

  She stood up, closed the window with a snap, then turned to face Olivia. “If worst comes to worst,” she said, “I will take you with me and we will go to the colonies, or somewhere else where we won’t be recognised. I’ve always wanted to travel the world. I believe we can probably fake our deaths and then vanish into the shadows.”

  Olivia stared at her, feeling an odd twinge in her heart. “You would give up your dream of being the Royal Sorceress?”

  Gwen laughed, not unkindly. “I wanted to be someone significant,” she said. “But I assumed obligations to you when I adopted you. I won’t put them aside for the sake of my career.”

  “I ...” Olivia shook her head, fighting down the urge to cry. “You’d do that for me?”

  “Yes,” Gwen said.

  Olivia couldn’t keep the tears back any longer. Gwen could have killed her or had her thrown back to the streets. Instead, she was offering to take Olivia and run, to hide her from her enemies and everyone who felt a Necromancer was too dangerous to be allowed to live. It would mean the end of her life as she knew it – and Olivia knew that being the Royal Sorceress was important to Gwen – and yet she was prepared to give it up for Olivia. She felt herself lose control and begin to sob helplessly, burrowing into Gwen’s arms. Her adopted mother wrapped her hands around Olivia and held her, tightly.

  “I want you to sleep,” Gwen said, as the tears finally came to an end. Her outfit was drenched, but she didn’t seem to care. “I need to sleep too. Afterwards, we can talk about the future when we’re in a better state of mind.”

  “Thank you,” Olivia said, blearily.

  Gwen levitated Olivia onto the bed, then wrapped the blankets around her and gently kissed her forehead. For once, Olivia didn’t feel any alarm or inclination to panic at the unwanted intimacy. Instead, she closed her eyes, gripped Gwen’s hand tightly and went to sleep.

  ***

  “I will honour my agreement, of course,” Talleyrand said. “I am indebted to you, Royal Sorceress.”

  “Thank you,” Gwen said. She understood just how tempted Talleyrand had to be to arrange an accident somewhere along the airship’s path back to Britain, but – oddly – she knew him to be a man of his word. “And yourself?”

  “We will stay in St Petersburg,” Talleyrand said. “I believe that Lord Standish wishes to remain too.”

  Gwen nodded. The first reports had been sent to London through the Talker at the British Embassy. Lord Mycroft had ordered the party to return home at once, with the exception of Lord Standish. Gwen had a feeling that this was to keep an embarrassment away from London until the government could decide what to do with him, but Lord Standish had accepted his orders with good grace. Once the Russians put together a new government, he could start negotiations with them on behalf of the British Empire.

  If they do, Gwen thought. Word of what had happened at Moscow had leaked out onto the streets and tensions had risen sharply. Civil war seemed a very real possibility. The Russians might kill both Lord Standish and Talleyrand.

  “I would wish you luck,” Gwen said. She allowed herself a smile. “I trust you understand?”

  Talleyrand gave her a cold smile in response. “Of course,” he said. “I would wish you luck too, of course.”

  “Lord Standish might prefer it for himself,” Gwen observed. “His household has been badly dented, his wife is on the brink of madness and his niece has declared her independence.”

  “There are worse things that can happen in life,” Talleyrand said. He winked at her. Gwen remembered that he was a womaniser and shivered. “I dare say he will find comfort in Moscow and separation from his wife. A madwoman is so inconvenient.”

  Gwen made a face. It was rare, but not uncommon for someone to be shut up on charges of madness, when the truth was that they had simply become inconvenient. A husband might have difficulty divorcing his wife, particularly if the marriage contract included terms stating her dowry had to be returned to her in the event of a separation, yet locking her up was much easier. As annoying as Gwen had found Lady Standish, she promised herself that the woman would receive the best medical care available. It was the least she could do.

  “Yes,” Gwen agreed, flatly. She’d been called a madwoman often enough herself. “They can be very inconvenient.”

  Talleyrand smiled. “I understand the Russians have been trying to handle the remaining undead,” he said, changing the subject. “Do you think they’ll succeed?”

  Gwen shrugged. According to the reports she’d heard, in the two days since they’d reached St Petersburg, Moscow had largely burned to the ground. Fortunately, the Russians weren’t pointing fingers at her; instead, they seemed to believe there had been an accident with a cooking fire, which had spread out of control in the absence of any attempt to control it. It was true, Gwen knew, that most of the undead had been burned in the fires. But it would be a long time before anyone felt safe near Moscow. There might have been entire nests of the undead making their way out of the city before the Tsar’s power collapsed.

  “It will keep them busy,” she said, and smirked. Even if the Russians didn’t collapse into civil war, they’d have too many worries of their own to think about supporting the French, at least for a few years. “I dare say the Sultan will be pleased to see the end of the threat.”

  “For a while,” Talleyrand said. He gave her a smile of his own. “I dare say that it wasn’t that long ago when we were gleefully considering the prospects opened by the death of the Ottoman Empire.”

  Gwen nodded, conceding the point. Everyone had known the Ottomans were on the verge of disintegration. Egypt was effectively independent, piracy was rife, revolts and insurrections were common and Greece had secured its freedom with the help of France. The outside powers had licked their lips at the thought of seizing territory with very little risk ...

  ... And then the new Sultan had taken over, smashed the established interests, brought Egypt firmly under his control and executed the rulers of the Barbary States. If the Ottomans could reverse their near-complete decline, why not the Russians?

  But the Romans failed, she thought. Why did one succeed and not the other?

  “We will see,” she said, rising to her feet. “I hope we will meet again in better circumstances.”

  “I do hope we shall,” Talleyrand said, rising himself. “And please give my regards to your lovely – and
useful – daughter.”

  Gwen pressed her lips together, fighting to keep her face under control. Talleyrand knew what Olivia was now, she knew. It would cause problems, particularly if he used the information to alert MPs or some of more stiff-necked Lords in Britain. But, at the same time, he also owed Gwen his life. She would just have to hope that he would keep his silence, at least long enough for the first reactions to Moscow to fade away.

  And if he doesn’t, she thought, as she took her leave, I’ll kill him.

  She kept her thoughts to herself as she made her way up to the roof, then launched herself into the air, flying over St Petersburg towards the airstrip. The small army of soldiers that had garrisoned the city seemed to be weaker now, after half of them had been withdrawn to help reinforce the soldiers sweeping the remains of Moscow. She looked down at the sullen population and wondered, inwardly, if any of them would survive the coming war. Even if Britain and France managed to step away from war, Russia was about to go through a long period of bloody upheaval.

  “Gwen,” Raechel called. She was standing by the airship, waiting for her friend, wearing a dress she’d begged from a Russian noblewoman. The white silk would be faintly scandalous in London, although it set off her red hair nicely. It showed far too much of the shape of her breasts. “What did the Frenchman have to say?”

  “We can cross French territory,” Gwen said, shortly. Part of her still wanted to go the long way home, but that wasn’t an option. Lord Mycroft wanted them home as quickly as possible. “And you should behave yourself on this trip.”

  Raechel blushed. “Tell that to Romulus and Janet,” she said, as she shifted her cloak to cover her chest. “I saw them kissing after they finished helping the ground crew load the airship.”

  Gwen laughed – she’d been right; they were sweet on each other – then she led the way into the gondola. “You have a new life ahead of you now,” she said, flatly. “I don’t think you want to waste it.”

  Chapter Forty

  The issue of Olivia’s status has been put before the King,” Lord Mycroft said, once Gwen had been shown into his office and served a cup of excellent tea. “I believe he will not insist she be ...”

  “Put down?” Gwen asked, tartly. “Or simply murdered?”

  Lord Mycroft met her gaze evenly. “You of all people ought to know that magic poses new problems for us,” he said. “The stories from Moscow are quite worrying.”

  Gwen nodded, bitterly. Thankfully, most of the survivors had been quarantined as soon as they reached London, allowing the government to put out a version of the story that glossed over Gwen’s role in the affair and ignored Olivia altogether. The newspapers would be told that Olivia had been kidnapped for ransom and that Scotland Yard – or Mycroft’s brother – had successfully tracked down their hiding place. It was a lie, but as long as it was believable, it would keep attention away from Olivia’s magic.

  But enough had had to be told to start questions being asked in the Houses of Parliament. No one liked the idea of what had happened in Moscow, particularly after the Necromantic outbreak during the Swing. It was likely the MPs would press for tougher measures against Necromancers, which would be difficult. Quite apart from Olivia’s existence, even finding a Necromancer was impossible unless they used their powers. How many people, Gwen asked herself, had no idea they were magicians until their powers broke free? There was no way to know.

  “However, I have confidence that we will survive a challenge,” Lord Mycroft continued, complacently. “The Government is assured of a firm block of supporting votes, particularly with the build-up to war. We should remain in place until after the war is concluded.”

  Gwen gave him a sharp look. “Why didn’t you tell me about Romulus?”

  She paused. “And why was he even there?”

  “Lord Standish ... has an aristocrat’s view of the world,” Lord Mycroft said. “He believes that gentlemen are always gentlemen, no matter where they are born. It is an attitude that is only workable when the rest of the world’s aristocracy are also gentlemen. He would approach a Turkish aristocrat, secure in the delusion that the Turk views the world in the same way he does. But the word of an English gentleman cannot be compared to the word of a Turkish gentleman.”

  “I see,” Gwen said, carefully.

  “Lord Standish might have weakened us, in a belief that the foreigners would never take advantage of such a weakness,” Lord Mycroft added. “It was deemed ... a wise precaution to keep an eye on him. Romulus was inserted into his household as one set of eyes.”

  “And Sir Sidney was there to override him if necessary,” Gwen added. She frowned. “But why send him at all?”

  “The Russians like high-ranking negotiators,” Lord Mycroft said. “They believe it shows that we are taking them seriously. But I have always preferred to use less ... flashy ambassadors for the truly important talks.”

  Gwen remembered Sir Travis and nodded.

  “But I didn’t tell you about Romulus because it was important you reacted normally to him,” Lord Mycroft added. “He had to know about you ... if you made a serious mistake, he could cover you against Lady Standish.”

  “She wanted him to beat me,” Gwen recalled. “I think we have to do something about that.”

  “She’s in a madhouse,” Lord Mycroft said. “One of the decent ones. What else do you want to do to her?”

  “Not that,” Gwen said, shaking her head. “About the way servants are treated in London.”

  Lord Mycroft lifted one eyebrow, then waited.

  “I worked as a maid for ... around three weeks,” Gwen said. It felt as if she’d been a servant for much longer. “If Lady Raechel hadn’t seen through my disguise, I would have found it completely unbearable before too long. I might well have lost control and seriously hurt Lady Standish.”

  “You would hardly be the only person forced to work hard,” Lord Mycroft observed.

  “I had something to use as a weapon, if necessary,” Gwen said. She would have been a laughing stock if she’d taken the case to court, but she wouldn’t have needed to do anything of the sort to extract revenge. A few words in the right ears would have forced Lady Standish into exile, either in the countryside or in France. “How many other maids have that sort of power?”

  She pushed on before he could answer. “The Swing changed some things for the better,” she admitted. “But other things have gone on as before, without any change at all.”

  “It takes time for change to percolate through society,” Lord Mycroft pointed out, evenly.

  “If Janet had gone to court to complain about Lady Standish, she would have lost her job and all prospects of getting another one,” Gwen snapped. “I don’t think the police would have taken seriously any charges levelled against Lady Standish, even if she had Janet beaten to within an inch of her life. And even the best-trained servants can be treated like slaves, if their employer has enough political clout. Something has to be done.”

  Lord Mycroft frowned. “We cannot afford a major political struggle, not now,” he said. “And it will take such a struggle to change the law and actually make it work.”

  “Then, after the war,” Gwen said, unwilling to give up. “If nothing else, this is a major crack in our defences.”

  She met his eyes, willing him to understand. “Howell used dissatisfied and vengeful servants as his sources,” she said. “What’s to stop the French or Russians doing the same?”

  “Point,” Lord Mycroft agreed. He’d done the same himself. “But we still need to wait until after the war.”

  “I won’t let this go,” Gwen warned, flatly. “My experiences were hardly the worst anyone ever experienced, My Lord. The abuse of servants has to stop.”

  Lord Mycroft smiled at her. “And how much of your feeling comes from having to act as a servant yourself?”

  Gwen felt her skin heat, but kept her voice under control. “I should have realised that servants were mistreated,” she said. She’d c
ertainly known her mother hadn’t been the kindest of mistresses to her servants. “And I should have done it before I had to play the role of a servant myself. But it doesn’t matter, in the end, where I had the insight. All that matters is that something has to be done before this situation blows up in our face.”

  “True,” Lord Mycroft agreed. He took a long breath. “After the war, you may seek political support for a reform bill. I dare say there are other issues that could be tackled at the same time. Slavery, for example. The growth of cotton farming in the Southern Colonies is going to pose a major challenge, sooner rather than later, as is the treatment of all who are not lily-white. The French will take advantage of that, I fear.”

  Gwen nodded. The Franco-Spanish Empire had managed to become more racially integrated than the British Empire, a reflection of the simple fact that large parts of their Latin and South American populations were hardly white. They’d even banned outright slavery and offered negroes citizenship, which had ensured that Mexico became the preferred destination for runaway slaves. It would be easy for the French to stir up slave revolts across the American South, tying down local militia and redcoats while the French were crossing the Rio Grande and mounting an invasion of British-ruled territory.

  Lord Mycroft sighed. “But any reform bill will meet considerable opposition,” he added. “The war may cripple some of it, but it will strengthen others.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” Gwen said. “But it has to be done.”

  “You’re as idealistic as Lord Standish,” Lord Mycroft said, dryly. “In your own way, of course.”

  “Thank you,” Gwen said, equally dryly. “And Raechel?”

  “Will be offered the chance to train,” Lord Mycroft assured her. “And even if she doesn’t make it through the course, she will be emancipated from the terms of her father’s will. I believe that is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Gwen said. Raechel would be pleased. And also no longer likely to use violence to break free of her aunt and uncle. “I think she will serve the Crown well.”