“Welcome, one and all,” the Worshipful Master said. The doors slammed closed with a heavy thud. “Today, we will crack open the secrets that lead to magic and invest ourselves with the power of sorcerers!”
He produced a book and placed it down on the smaller table. Gwen recognised it at once and had to fight to keep her face calm. The volume, written by a mad Arab, was well known in the occult world, but it was all nonsense. Certainly, none of the spells within the volume had worked when the Royal College had tried them, back during the early days of magic. And none of the known forms of magic had been listed in the book.
“We shall summon an entity from the ninth plane of hell,” the Worshipful Master said. He certainly sounded as though he believed what he was saying, although Olivia had once told Gwen that sounding sincere and honest was a vital requirement for being a conman. “To prepare the room, we will chant a summoning rite. Join us, once you pick up the words.”
He clicked his fingers, and then started to chant in a language Gwen didn’t recognise. A moment later, the other brothers joined in, creating a sonorous, almost hypnotic effect. It was nonsense – magic simply didn’t work that way, as Gwen knew better than anyone – and yet it was captivating. The rhythms were easy to learn and follow; one by one, the audience slowly joined in with the brothers. She exchanged a brief look with Inspector Jude and started to mutter the words herself, wondering which language they were using. Or maybe the Worshipful Master had made them up. It wouldn’t be hard to come up with a few dozen nonsense syllables and recite them with apparent sincerity.
The chant seemed to change once everyone had picked up the words. Gwen listened as the Worshipful Master added his own words, his voice echoing out over the background, while the brothers kept repeating the same mantras. He would have made a good singer, she considered, if he’d been able to go on stage, but it would have been a major scandal. It wouldn’t do for the scion of an aristocratic family to stand up and sing like a common music hall jockey.
Finally, a bell rang and the Worshipful Master fell silent. The chant slowly died away, leaving them standing silently in the midst of the room.
“We have been heard,” the Worshipful Master said. “He hears us. He is coming.”
A dull thump echoed through the hall. Despite herself, Gwen tensed. There was so much they didn’t know about magic; it might just be possible that the Worshipful Master and his Order had stumbled into something new. But all of her instincts told her otherwise, despite the shiver running down her spine as another thump shook the building. And then a door opened at the far end of the room and two more brothers, robed and masked, walked in, carrying a girl between their shoulders. She was naked, but didn’t seem aware of it. One look and Gwen knew that she had been drugged. The dull expression in her eyes was proof of that.
“We will offer this life to the dark one,” the Worshipful Master said quietly, as the Brothers helped the girl onto the larger stone table. “She will die and we will be rewarded with power beyond imagination.”
Gwen glanced at Inspector Jude, who nodded, one hand reaching into his jacket for his concealed revolver. Nodding back, she closed her eyes and sent a single thought to the Talker outside the building. Come.
“With this blade,” the Worshipful Master said, “we will send her to the afterlife and...”
Gwen stepped forward and reached out with her magic, yanking the knife out of the Worshipful Master’s hand. He stared at it, and then at Gwen, his face twisted with disbelief and shock. Gwen caught the knife in one hand – one glance at it told her that it came from John Wells, a well-known fake magician – and slammed it to the floor. It shattered into a spray of stone fragments.
“You are all under arrest,” she said, drawing on her magic to illuminate her form. They’d see through her disguise now, so she pushed as much Charm into her voice as she could. “Sit down and wait quietly until the police get here.”
Some of the aristocrats, too weak-minded or drunk to shake off the Charm, complied at once. The others, already panicking, kept running, heading for the doors that led to the outside world and freedom. None of them could afford to be caught. A handful produced weapons and hesitated, unsure if they should be pointing them at Gwen or at the Worshipful Master. Gwen had no doubt that they were wondering if they could convince their families that they were actually spying for the government...
The Worshipful Master snarled and produced another knife, throwing it at Gwen with lethal force. Gwen caught it effortlessly and threw it back, angling it right between his legs. He let out a yelp as the knife sliced through his robes and fell over backwards, just as two other bystanders opened fire on Gwen. The bullets bounced off her magical shield and ricocheted around the hall. One of the Charmed aristocrats on the floor let out a yell as a bullet grazed his shoulder.
“You are under arrest,” Gwen repeated, as Inspector Jude produced a pair of handcuffs and cuffed the Worshipful Master. Down below, policemen were flooding into the building, rounding up everyone inside. No doubt most of those arrested would claim to have nothing to do with the Order; some of them might even be telling the truth. But Gwen found that rather unlikely. “Tell me; just what did you expect would happen when you killed the poor girl?”
The Worshipful Master glared at her. “I would have been granted power far superior to yours,” he snarled, finally. Gwen couldn’t tell if he was serious, or if he was still trying to con her. He really should have known better. “And then I would have ruled the world.”
Gwen shook her head as two burly policemen arrived. “Have him taken to the cells, somewhere separate from the rest of his Order,” she said. The remaining members of the Order had surrendered without a fight and, once they’d been cuffed, their masks had been removed. Gwen recognised all, but one of them as scions of powerful families. Their arrest was likely to lead to a power struggle between the King’s Government and their relatives, all of whom would be outraged at their children being arrested. “And keep them separate as well.”
“Certainly, My Lady,” Inspector Jude said. The policeman beside him gave Gwen a sharp look, as if he hadn’t realised that she was female until Jude had pointed it out. “I trust that you will be taking the case directly to the Home Secretary?”
“I will,” Gwen said. Master Thomas could have dealt with everything on his own authority – but he’d had sixty years of experience and knew where most of the bodies were buried. Gwen had much less latitude... and many more political enemies. The ones who didn’t consider her a foolish female – never mind the fact that Queens tended to be better for the country than Kings – believed that she was too young to do her job.
“And, Inspector, I want you to find out where she came from.”
A police doctor was already looking at the intended sacrifice. “She’s been drugged, probably with a light dose of chloroform,” he said. “It would probably be better to let her recover here and then transfer her to one of the hospitals, where she can be interviewed.”
“See to it,” Gwen ordered. “I can write a chit for a Healer’s services, if necessary.”
She took one last look at the Worshipful Order of Ancient Wisdom and then walked out of the door, back onto the streets. A small army of policemen were identifying, booking and finally marching off the aristocratic witnesses, using kid gloves. Gwen found it hard to blame them; even a very junior aristocrat could file a complaint that would ruin a constable’s career. The Bow Street Runners might have been purged of the worst of the corruption after the Swing, when they had failed to keep the streets under control, but there were still bad apples in the barrel.
Taking a copy of the arrest list from Inspector Lestrade, who could never have passed for an aristocrat, she walked off in the direction of the Houses of Parliament. If she knew Lord Mycroft, he’d still be working on papers in his office until midnight and he’d need to see the arrest list as soon as possible. The Worshipful Order of Ancient Wisdom would create a political nightmare as soon as they
were released from custody.
But there had been no choice. Sacrificing a human being was very definitely crossing the line, even though Gwen had known that it would be futile. They’d had to be stopped, even if it meant risking the stability of the government – or even if it meant risking her own position.
Because if she couldn’t stop well-connected men murdering members of the lower orders, what had Jack died for anyway?
Chapter Two
During the Swing, Whitehall and the Houses of Parliament had been extensively damaged by the rebels. After the fighting had come to an end, the government had started a long-term project to rebuild the heart of the British Establishment, allowing the government departments to be extensively reorganised – and, Gwen had been told, to be purged of a great many officials who had outstayed their welcome. Lord Mycroft, who had lost his flat in Pall Mall when the rebels had firebombed it, had moved into Whitehall and taken effective control of the government. These days, he rarely left his offices.
Gwen smiled to herself as the policemen on duty waved her through the gates. At first, they’d been suspicious of a young girl visiting Whitehall, certainly one without any male escort. Now, they just let her through without asking any questions, apart from a handful of requests to show off her magic. Gwen had been puzzled at first, until Inspector Jude had reminded her that the Royal Sorcerer was supposed to provide magical support if the Bow Street Runners ran into trouble. A display of competence on her part was always welcome.
Lord Mycroft’s office occupied the entire second floor of the Home Office. Somehow, it still managed to seem crammed with files, books and boxes, allowing Lord Mycroft instant access to any or all of the government’s archives. Gwen had never seen him actually having to look at the files; like Doctor Norwell, Lord Mycroft possessed a perfect memory and an undeniable gift for seeing connections in the information that would be missed by almost anyone else. He was easily the most intelligent man that Gwen had ever encountered. The thought of what would happen to the government when he died or retired was chilling.
“Lady Gwen,” Lord Mycroft said. He was seated on the far side of a massive desk, splitting his attention between a government report and a chessboard where a puzzle had been laid out for his attention. “I trust that matters went well?”
Gwen nodded as she sat down. “The so-called Worshipful Order of Ancient Wisdom is in custody,” she said, as she passed him the arrest list. “How could anyone be so stupid as to believe such nonsense? Summoning a demon indeed!”
Lord Mycroft snorted. “We have been allowing people to believe all kinds of nonsense about magic, ever since Professor Cavendish first codified it,” he reminded her. “For all they know, maybe you do get your powers from the devil.”
“Too many people believe that,” Gwen muttered. She’d been ignorant about the true nature of magic before Master Thomas had taken her as his apprentice. Maybe an outsider, with nothing more than rumours to go on, would believe that magic came from the devil – or, for that matter, that someone could be turned into a frog just by a magician snapping their fingers.
“But not, alas, enough of them,” Lord Mycroft added. “We do know that the French have definitely started to build their own force of trained magicians. A present from Master Jackson, I do believe.”
Gwen rubbed her forehead. The French had originally believed that magic was of demonic origin, if only because magic had allowed the British to beat them soundly in 1800 – and, lacking the insight provided by Professor Cavendish, they had been unable to codify magic for themselves. But then they’d allowed Jack to reside in France and he’d taught them how to find and train new magicians. Gwen had no doubt that, whatever the Pope had to say about it, the French would have no hesitation about using their own Sorcerers Corps. After all, Master Thomas hadn’t hesitated to fly in the face of convention and recruit her when he’d needed an apprentice.
Magic had given the British Empire a major advantage in 1800. Talkers had allowed the coordination of military forces all over the world, while it had taken the French weeks or months to get orders and reports to various far-flung outlets. Blazers had ignited wooden sailing ships before they could fire a single shot towards the Royal Navy. Even Sensitives – the weakest form of magic - had offered the British an unfair advantage. No wonder the French had called magic demonic – and no wonder that they’d accepted Jack’s offer with alacrity. They needed to master magic for themselves.
“So have the Turks,” Mycroft added. “And they have help too.”
Gwen gritted her teeth. The last report had placed Lord Blackburn in Cairo, working with the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. Lord Blackburn might have been nothing more than a Charmer – which didn’t stop him being very dangerous – but he knew enough to put the Turkish research program into magic onto a very sound footing. Gwen had disliked him intensely even before she’d realised just how deeply entangled he’d been with the farms and other programs intended to keep magic firmly in upper class hands.
Maybe I should be glad he fled before the end of the Swing, she told herself, firmly. He would have been pardoned at the end, like everyone else.
It was strange to consider such matters. A year ago, she’d wanted – desperately – to explore her own powers and do something useful. Now, she was the foremost magician in the land, the leader of the Royal Sorcerers Corps and Chairman – Chairwoman, she supposed – of the Royal College. Powerful men hung on her every word, just as she’d imagined when she’d been a child, experimenting with the magic that had both blessed and blighted her life. But she’d never realised just how far her responsibilities would stretch until it was too late to change her mind.
Or, for that matter, how many people would refuse to take her seriously.
“And so have the Russians, we assume,” she said, tartly. “Or have you heard anything different from them?”
“Nothing,” Lord Mycroft said. “But the Russians have always been good at keeping secrets. They could have a small army of magicians by now and we wouldn’t know about it, at least until we saw them in combat... perhaps in Central Asia.”
Gwen nodded, visualising the map in her mind. Britain ruled all of India and was pushing northwards through Afghanistan; Russia was pressing southwards, building a colossal network of roads that would allow the Cossacks to ride to their destinations far quicker than ever before. Sooner or later, the two empires would meet and clash. By then, the Russians would need magicians of their own if they wanted to prevail.
“Or Europe,” she said, after a moment. “They might end up breaking the treaty with France...”
“Unlikely,” Lord Mycroft said, with authority. “The recent royal marriage between Paris and St. Petersburg will give them some incentive to avoid outright war, even if they are disagreeing over the precise division of the German states. I have it on good authority that diplomats on both sides are strongly suggesting that they leave the Germans independent as buffer states, particularly as few believe that the Germans could ever become a major threat to both empires. Besides, if they do go to war, the only winners would be right here in London.”
“Because whoever won would take a generation to recover,” Gwen said, to show that she had been paying attention. The six months since she’d become Royal Sorceress had required a great deal of cramming. “Better to expand into Africa and Central Asia.”
“Much better,” Lord Mycroft confirmed. “On the other hand, we don’t want either power establishing a firm foothold in Turkey – or Persia. And Parliament will give us a hard time if anything happens to block the slave trade from exploiting North Africa.”
Gwen fought the impulse to scowl. There were parts of the British Empire, notably the islands in the Caribbean and the American South, that depended upon slavery – and the slave trade, where Negroes were enslaved in Africa and sold to the highest bidder. She had never truly grasped the realities of slavery until after she’d become Royal Sorceress, despite the horror she’d seen in London before t
he Swing. Countless men and women, taken from their homes by rival tribesmen, shackled in cramped holds where many of them would suffocate before they reached their new homes. And if one of them hadn’t developed magic and accidentally set fire to a boat in London, Gwen would never have known that the slaves had even been there.
Slavery was an abomination, as horrifying in its way as the conditions of the poor that had helped fuel the Swing. But the slaveholders had considerable political power and even the most enthusiastic reformers had been unable to ban the slave trade, let alone stamp out slavery within the Empire. One day, Gwen suspected, the slaves would revolt...
“Politics,” Lord Mycroft reminded her. He seemed to be good at following her thoughts, even though he was no Talker. “We do what we can, when we can. And we keep the interests of the Empire firmly in mind.”
He tapped the chessboard. “It isn’t the single pieces” – his fingers brushed lightly over the white queen – “that are important, so much as how they fit together,” he added. “Our priority is to keep the Empire intact. And the way politics has been shaken up recently...”
“The Swing,” Gwen said. “You told the King that the Reform Act would be better for the Empire in the long term.”
“I did,” Lord Mycroft confirmed. “And it will be. But that doesn’t stop us from having teething problems as the Reformers try to change everything at once and the Conservatives try to keep the Empire in a state of stasis. Neither side can be allowed full rein, but maintaining the balance is not easy.”
It took Gwen a moment to follow his logic. If a reforming Parliament moved against slavery – and only a few individuals within the Reform Party had truly taken an antislavery stance – the slaveholders would unite with the Conservatives. Given a few decades, perhaps something could be done, but until then...
“I suppose it doesn’t matter to the pawns,” she said, with more bitterness than she had intended. “Most of them don’t get to be queens.”
The Great Game (Royal Sorceress) Page 2
