The Great Game (Royal Sorceress)

by Nuttall, Christopher

  ALSO BY CHRISTOPHER NUTTALL

  Royal Sorceress series

  The Royal Sorceress

  Bookworm series

  Bookworm

  Dizzy Spells series

  A Life Less Ordinary

  INVERSE SHADOWS UNIVERSE

  SUFFICIENTLY ADVANCED TECHNOLOGY

  It’s 1831, and Lady Gwendolyn Crichton has been appointed Royal Sorceress following the tragic events known as the Swing. Although unleashed by the rebel master magician Jack in battle with Gwen’s mentor Master Thomas, the popular press firmly laid the blame at the feet of the French. Now alone at the head of the Royal College of Sorcerers, Gwen must overcome prejudice against her gender and age if she is to exercise her authority and fulfil her responsibilities. Soon an unexpected responsibility is made manifest when Sir Travis Mortimer, a senior magician recently returned from India, is found murdered in a locked room. Gwen is required to investigate, but before long her inquiries lead her into a web of intrigue that combines international politics, widespread aristocratic blackmail, gambling dens, and personal vendettas. Should she believe apparent evidence that Mortimer betrayed his country, or is she being manipulated to keep her away from the truth? Who can she really trust? Is a title or popular acclaim a valid basis for trust? Soon, some of the more unsavoury aspects of the case get dangerously close to home, which means Gwen must make hard decisions and ask difficult questions of her own nearest and dearest.

  Continuing on from the end of The Royal Sorceress, The Great Game follows Gwen’s unfolding story as she assumes the role vacated by Master Thomas. A satisfying blend of whodunit and magical fantasy, it is set against a backdrop of international political unrest in a believable yet simultaneously fantastic alternate history.

  The Great Game

  Book II

  of the Royal Sorceress series

  Christopher Nuttall

  Elsewhen Press

  The Great Game

  First published in Great Britain by Elsewhen Press, 2013

  An imprint of Alnpete Limited

  Copyright © Christopher Nuttall, 2013. All rights reserved

  The right of Christopher Nuttall to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, telepathic, magical, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  The use of the typeface Goudy Initialen was

  graciously permitted by the designer, Dieter Steffmann.

  Elsewhen Press, PO Box 757, Dartford, Kent DA2 7TQ

  www.elsewhen.co.uk

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-908168-27-6 Print edition

  ISBN 978-1-908168-37-5 eBook edition

  Condition of Sale

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  Elsewhen Press & Planet-Clock Design are trademarks of Alnpete Limited

  Converted to eBook format by Elsewhen Press

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, colleges, and events are either a product of the author’s fertile imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organisations, places or people (living, dead or undead) is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Afterword

  To Pauline, Catherine and Kate

  Prologue

  THE TIMES, LONDON

  TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES

  Sir,–As a retired military officer and sorcerer in the Royal Sorcerers Corps, I am writing to express my grave concern – nay, dismay – over the decision of HIS MAJESTY’S PRIME MINISTER, THE DUKE OF INDIA to appoint LADY GWENDOLYN CRICHTON as Royal Sorceress. The Duke’s record of service to our Empire is, of course, beyond any question. Nonetheless, I believe his decision here is not fortunate. It is not one, I feel, that is in the best interests of the British Empire.

  No one can deny that LADY GWENDOLYN has shown the pluck and determination expected of an Englishwoman in a sticky situation. Her heroism contributed significantly to ending the Rebellion, a rebellion whose end was in my opinion not marked by an adequate number of hangings of the traitors who launched it, before there was further loss of life.

  However, the fact remains that LADY GWENDOLYN is profoundly unsuited to any position of authority. Like any girl, she is far too delicate for this burden to be placed upon her. The sheltered upbringing of a lady of her station does not cover the areas that any sorcerer would need to know. For example, it will occasionally be needful for the sorcerer to command a party including other ranks. The exigencies of battle occasionally require the officer leading the engagement to motivate other ranks with stiff words, words with which a lady of her station would assuredly be unaware, let alone be prepared to use.

  Furthermore, although there are no detailed reports, there are disturbing rumours from her childhood that suggest unpleasant thoughts about her conduct. I shall say no more about those!

  Even if she was physically and mentally capable of holding her own in thaumaturgic combat, she is only sixteen years old [ED – LADY GWENDOLYN is seventeen as of writing]. There is no way that she can command the respect and admiration that MASTER THOMAS commanded from the sorcerers who served under him. If there is a conflict of wills within the Corps, a woman, nay a girl of sixteen, can hardly be expected to stand firmly behind her position and compel men three or even four times her age to carry out the decisions that she will of necessity have been supplied sotto voce.

  It runs against the grain for any man to take orders from a woman, let alone a girl whose past experience with life will have been playing with dolls, learning the arts of the feminine home economy, and casting the most demure downcast glances toward future suitors. The sorcerers of the RSC will have no doubt that LADY GWENDOLYN is far less knowledgeable – let alone experienced or competent – than themselves. That is the nature of the world; that men lead, and women do as they are told while being grateful that they are not asked to perform unnatural acts involving leadership, courage, or rational thought. At best, LADY GWENDOLYN will be repeatedly embarrassed by her elders; at worst, she will have to dre
ss up as a man and lead the RSC onto the battlefield, no fit place for a woman! I submit to you that forcing a young girl to undergo this humiliation is cruel and unnecessary.

  Nor is there any reason to allow an accident of birth to dictate the holder of the post of Royal Sorcerer. MASTER THOMAS’S true genius lay in his organisation skills; he, more than anyone else, shaped both the Corps and the Royal College. There is no true requirement for a Master Magician to hold the post; the old belief that the holder should be the most powerful and capable magician in service has been discredited. Do we really expect a General to be physically stronger than a Sergeant?

  In this era of instability, with the very strong possibility of yet another war with France, the last thing we need is uncertainty in the ranks of the Royal Sorcerers Corps. I therefore call upon the government to reconsider its position and find a more suitable person to serve as Royal Sorcerer. Certainly, there are any number of men within the Corps who, by virtue of their male birth, are intrinsically more competent than is this girl, LADY GWENDOLYN.

  I am, Sir, your most obedient servant

  COL. SEBASTIAN, Blazer (Ret. 1830)

  2nd Warwickshire Yeomanry Regiment May 1, 1831

  ––––––––––

  Chapter One

  It’s a shame you can’t hide your chin,” Olivia said, as Gwen studied her own reflection in the mirror. “Without it, you’d fool even a sharp-eye.”

  Gwen snorted. Her adopted daughter had grown up on the streets. Physically, she was somewhere around ten years old – it was impossible to be sure – but mentally she was well over forty. Children grew up quickly on the streets and those unlucky enough to be born female tended to suffer more than most. Gwen had railed against her own upbringing, but she’d been lucky – very lucky – compared to Olivia. A few more years and she would no longer have been able to pass for a boy.

  “Use an illusion,” Olivia added. “You could pass for a man without the outfit.”

  “True,” Gwen agreed. Creating illusions was easy. “But I might not be able to fool a Sensitive.”

  She studied herself thoughtfully. The black jacket and white shirt she wore – the very latest in male fashion – had been carefully designed to hide the swell of her breasts, while the top hat disguised her short blonde hair. She’d had to cut it short while she’d been training under Master Thomas, but she’d kept it short even after she’d succeeded him as Royal Sorceress. It was short enough to pass for a slightly-effeminate male hairstyle, or so she hoped. Elaborate wigs, which would have hidden everything, were currently out of fashion. Even her mother, who would have fainted if she’d realised that Gwen was dressing up as a man, hadn’t been able to see when wearing wigs would be fashionable once again.

  Most importantly of all, she looked nothing like Lady Gwendolyn Crichton, Royal Sorceress.

  “You’ll certainly fool those toffs you’re going to see,” Olivia assured her, with the certainty of one who knew. “That lot never look very closely at someone wearing the right clothes. I know conmen who profited simply by dressing the part.”

  Gwen took one final look in the mirror and then turned, picking up the cane that had been passed down to her from Master Thomas. The elderly magician had left her almost everything he’d owned, including money, property and a set of notebooks that were written in a scrawled hand that was almost impossible to decipher. Looking down at it, Gwen felt herself feeling the same ambivalence she always felt towards the memory of her mentor. Master Thomas had plucked her from her boring life and trained her as a sorceress – and she would always be grateful – but he’d also been responsible for unleashing a nightmare on London to defeat the Swing. Gwen was one of the very few people who knew the truth, even though it was something she would have preferred to forget.

  There was a knock at the door. “Begging your pardon, My Lady, but Inspector Jude is downstairs,” the maid said. “He awaits your pleasure.”

  Gwen nodded to Olivia and walked to the door. Cavendish Hall was massive, with several entrances that allowed her to leave unseen. She might have been the Royal Sorceress, with the formal power to deal with all legal and military matters involving magic, but the remainder of the Sorcerers Corps was unsure how to deal with her. If they’d had another Master Magician, Gwen knew, she would have been expected to stand aside for him. But they hadn’t. Some of the traditionalists were even making noises about appointing a committee of magicians to take Master Thomas’s place. Only the newcomers supported her without reservation.

  Inspector Jude stepped out of the carriage and nodded politely to Gwen. Like her, he’d dressed up in the garments of a young nobleman, one of the many who were born and bred outside London and gravitated to the capital city when they came of age. She had to admit that he wore the clothes better than she did, complete with a hint of stubble that gave him a daringly rakish look. No one would have taken him for a Bow Street Runner, at least not on first sight.

  “They’re definitely having a meeting tonight,” he said, as she climbed into the carriage and sat down. “We saw the Worshipful Master heading for the hall barely an hour ago.”

  “Good,” Gwen said, tightly. She always felt nervous before walking into trouble, even though she was fine once the trouble actually began. “Let’s hope that it isn’t just another false alarm.”

  The Worshipful Order of Ancient Wisdom had seemed, at first, like just another craze spreading through legions of aristocratic men who refused to do anything useful with their lives. Most of them were second or third sons who wouldn’t inherit either land or property, leaving them living in considerable luxury without any real goals in life. Those who had the inclination joined the army, or the navy, or even the Colonial Service. The remainder just idled around London, enjoying an endless series of parties, hunts and other diversions. It wouldn’t be the first time that they’d started trying to play around with magic.

  But there were rumours about the Worshipful Order, disturbing rumours, and it was Gwen’s task to investigate. They’d become more blatant in the six months since the Swing, since Master Thomas had died, as if they didn’t expect Gwen to hold them to account. She’d known that she would have to do something the moment she’d read the file. But punishing young aristocrats required a far higher level of proof than punishing common people.

  The carriage rattled noisily as it crossed the bridge and headed into Pall Mall. Once, it had been the most expensive part of London, but that had been before the Swing, before rebels had held the capital city long enough to destroy many of the hated symbols of wealth. Now, several dozen buildings were being rebuilt, yet the richer part of the population had started to gravitate to areas outside the city. Gwen’s brother had informed her that flats in Pall Mall were actually going surprisingly cheaply these days.

  Inspector Jude didn’t bother with small talk as the carriage turned the corner and headed down towards the Worshipful Order’s hall. Gwen felt her stomach tighten as she checked both the cane – which concealed a sword – and the hidden revolver she carried in her jacket. There would be policemen, and a Talker, waiting near the building, but she’d had enough experience by now to know how quickly a situation could get out of hand.

  “Here we are, My Lord,” Inspector Jude said. “Remember to swagger as you jump out of the carriage.”

  Gwen smiled as the carriage lurched to a halt, a moment before one of the doormen opened the door and waited for the occupants to step outside. She jumped down, silently relieved that she no longer had to wear skirts at all, no matter how scandalous her mother and her friends found it, and strode up to the door with all the confidence she could muster. Lord McAlister, her alter ego, wouldn’t allow anything to stand in his path. Gwen kept walking and the doormen simply melted away. They knew that the Worshipful Master loved inviting the other aristocrats to his little coven. Anyone who knew about it, they assumed, had been invited. Gwen had no intention of correcting them just yet.

  “Ah, Laird McAlister,” the Worshipf
ul Master said. Gwen braced herself as his gaze flickered over her, but he looked away without seeing anything suspicious. The smell of brandy suggested that he’d been fortifying himself before the meeting actually began, unsurprisingly. Some of the party set could drink all night and never notice any ill-effects in the morning. “Welcome, welcome; please, take a place in the hall.”

  Gwen nodded and headed into the main room. It had been heavily altered to suit the Order’s needs, complete with two stone tables in the centre of the room, one much larger than the other, and five heavy chandeliers hanging high overhead. They spun slowly, casting odd shadows over the spectators – and the robed members of the Order. Apart from the Worshipful Master himself, they all wore masks to conceal their identities. It was another sign that they were pushing the limits, even for men with fine aristocratic families. They really didn’t want to be caught.

  The room filled up slowly. As Gwen had expected, there were twelve members of the Order openly decked out in their ropes, and around forty unrobed men who seemed to be nothing more than spectators, all instantly recognisable to someone who had grown up within the aristocracy. The unrobed men were drinking heavily, served by maids who walked from person to person carrying glasses and bottles while doing their best to avoid groping fingers. There didn’t seem to be any aristocratic women in the room, for which Gwen was grateful, knowing that one of them might have been able to see through her disguise. Besides, aristocratic women were prone to a different sort of silliness than the men.