The Great Game (Royal Sorceress)

by Nuttall, Christopher

  He smiled again, then started to tell a different story. “A month or two later, we went on a mission to Bukhara, a state where both us and the Russians were competing for influence,” he said. “It was a remarkable city – do you know it dates all the way back to the time of Alexander the Great? But the current Emir was nothing like as capable as his predecessors and the Russians had managed to secure more influence than we’d realised in his court. They caught us and threw us into jail.”

  Gwen had read part of the story in dispatches, but she had no idea how much of the public version was actually true.

  “I told you that Sir Travis was good at talking to the natives,” Sir Charles continued. “We were both tortured, of course, and we told them nothing, but Sir Travis realised that the Emir’s younger son had doubts about his country’s attachment to Russia. He prevailed upon the young man to help us escape, then plotted a coup that allowed him to replace the Emir and purge his elder brothers. We were going to kill the Russian advisors, but apparently they had protested when the Emir arrested us. They thought that our deaths might bring the army to Bukhara.”

  “That wasn’t the version you sent back home,” Gwen pointed out. The version of the story she’d read in the newspapers had stated that they’d made a daring escape, leaving Bukhara in the dead of night disguised as local traders. There certainly hadn’t been anything about helping a prince overthrow his father. “Why didn’t you tell the truth?”

  Sir Charles shrugged. “You think the British Public wants to know the full truth of the Great Game? Our fear is the Russians seizing a land bridge to India... and they are trying to do just that, advancing their borders southwards kingdom by kingdom. We have to do whatever it takes to stop them, even if it means sponsoring coups and dealing with dishonourable men – or tribesmen who would stick a knife in our back as soon as it was turned. But the British Public doesn’t want to hear about that. They want to hear about heroics...”

  Gwen couldn’t disagree with him. After all, she was one of the few people who knew what had really happened during the Battle of London.

  “Not our only crazy adventure,” Sir Charles said. “There was the time when we disguised ourselves as horse-traders and wandered from kingdom to kingdom, gathering intelligence for future operations. We tinted our skin and spoke in accented voices – and yet we were nearly caught more than once by sharp-eyed locals. And then there was the time when we were nearly married to a local nabob’s daughters... that could have been embarrassing, I tell you.”

  “Nearly married?” Gwen asked. “Why....?”

  “Turned out that the man thought we were royalty, wandering around in disguise,” Sir Charles told her. “Apparently, some states have a tradition of the King donning commoner clothes and going out to see what his people were actually saying in the marketplace. We had to leave that state in a hurry, believe me.”

  “That sounds unbelievable,” Gwen said. “He didn’t even know who you were?”

  “He might not have changed his mind if he had,” Sir Charles said. “We met a couple of white men who changed their religion and married local girls. One of them was actually a former colour sergeant who became the commander of the king’s army. He was actually teaching them how to fight like us... good thing he also had the sense to advise his father-in-law not to resist or it could have become bloody. That army might come in very handy one day.”

  He scowled. “Still, you can never trust someone who immersed himself in the ways of the orient,” he added. “The locals are a shifty lot. If you look weak, they won’t hesitate to take advantage of it – and you never know what is going to set them off. A couple of years before the Swing, there was a near-mutiny in the north of India; some travelling faker of a fakir had told the local troops that the cartridges in their rifles had been coated with pig or beef fat. Muslims can’t touch pig fat; Hindus see the cow as a holy animal... it was a lie, but it still started trouble for us. If we hadn’t managed to summon additional regiments to disarm the mutinous troops and keep the peace, it could have gone badly for us.”

  Gwen remembered all the whispered rumours about her and scowled. Sometimes, all it took was repetition to get people believing a lie, even if it was absolute nonsense. Even after she’d become the Royal Sorceress, the rumours about her ranged from the absurd to the disgusting – and those were just the one’s she’d heard. God alone knew what was being whispered about her in distant India, or America.

  She changed the subject. “What was Sir Travis like, as a person?”

  “Good companion, always calm and composed... never really seemed surprised by anything the locals did,” Sir Charles said. “But... he did have a bit of a weakness for gambling. He’d play cards constantly with anyone fool enough to take him up on it. I eventually had to ask him to stop using his magic if he wanted to gamble with me.”

  That was... odd, Gwen realised. It was simple not to use Blazing or Moving, but she’d always had the impression that Sensitives rarely had such fine control over their powers. So many of them ended up in the madhouse because they couldn’t control their powers. Indeed, there were unwritten laws against Sensitives and Talkers gambling, if only because they had an unfair advantage. Had Sir Travis been so capable that he could turn his power off at will – or had he lied to his friend?

  “A gambling habit is hardly unusual,” she mused, deciding not to mention the latter possibility. “That wouldn’t have served as an excuse to break off an engagement...”

  But it would have, she realised, if Sir Travis had effectively been cheating. David had once told her that a man he’d known had been blackballed from all of the gambling halls in London after being caught cheating. Sir Travis might not have been cheating, but with his powers he would certainly be suspected of cheating... and it would be difficult to prove his innocence. He might even have been cheating without intending to cheat, if his control over his powers wasn’t as good as everyone said.

  A Talker could have verified his innocence, she knew. But he’d had so many secrets in his head that his superiors would have been reluctant to allow it.

  “He used to play at the Golden Turk,” Sir Charles said. “I believe that he first went there to meet a Turkish... ah, representative... and then kept going back. He never played with me in London.”

  Gwen smiled. “What did you play for?”

  “Very small stakes,” Sir Charles said. “When we were travelling, we gambled over who would wash the dishes or carry the heavier load. In Calcutta, we would play for money with the rest of the community. Sir Travis did very well even after I convinced him to stop using his powers, mostly because he wasn’t a prideful ass. Some of the players there just kept raising the stakes because they couldn’t bear to fold.”

  “I know the type,” Gwen said. Some of them grew bored with gambling and went looking for more exotic pursuits, such as the so-called Worshipful Order of Ancient Wisdom, or were eventually cut off by their parents and forced to seek gainful employment overseas. “Do you know how much Sir Travis was paid? Was gambling his main source of income?”

  “I never enquired,” Sir Charles said, stiffly. “But given what he did for the government, I am sure he received a more than fair salary. And all of our expenses were refunded, no questions asked.”

  Gwen nodded, thoughtfully. It was unlikely that Lord Mycroft would have refused to give Sir Travis a proper salary. If nothing else, a resentful man made a poor employee. It was a shame that more money wasn’t enough to overcome those who resented Gwen’s elevation to Royal Sorceress, but the only thing that would satisfy them would be a male Master Magician – themselves, for preference.

  “And Lord Bracknell would have satisfied himself that Travis could keep his daughter in the style she deserved,” Gwen mused. “Did he know about the Golden Turk?”

  “I don’t know,” Sir Charles admitted. “It was founded just after the Swing – a number of gambling halls were destroyed and the owner saw a chance to establish himself. Lord Bracknel
l might not have even known of its existence. He doesn’t go gambling.”

  “I’ll have to investigate,” Gwen said, shaking her head. David had spent time in gambling halls, but young ladies of good breeding never gambled. “I have to visit Ambassador Talleyrand tomorrow – and then Augustus Howell.”

  Sir Charles jerked in surprise. “You actually mean to visit him?”

  “He’s a suspect,” Gwen said. Who was Howell that so many different people had bad reactions to him? She seeded her voice with as much Charm as she dared. “Do you know what he wanted with Sir Travis?”

  “I wouldn’t dare to guess,” Sir Charles said. Again, he seemed utterly unaware of the Charm. “But I do not believe that he had anything to do with Sir Travis’s murder.”

  “It has to be investigated,” Gwen said.

  “No doubt,” Sir Charles said. He smiled at her. “Can I take you for lunch after you meet the Ambassador?”

  Gwen hesitated. Lunch with a man, even lunch in a public place, would be used against her by her enemies. If they’d known that she’d eaten with Lord Mycroft in private – more than once – they would have enjoyed spreading rumours... and Sir Charles was far less powerful than Lord Mycroft. On the other hand, he was famous and popular and the rumours might backfire...

  And she enjoyed his company. More, perhaps, than she wanted to admit.

  “I’d be honoured,” she said, and meant it. “Where do you want to eat?”

  Sir Charles made a show of being thoughtful. “Glisters, I think,” he said. “I believe the food there is generally considered excellent. Sir Travis used to love it.”

  Gwen nodded. “That would be suitable,” she said. It wasn’t as if she could invite him to Cavendish Hall. She looked up at him as a question returned to her mind. “How did you know where to find me?”

  Sir Charles made no pretence of being puzzled by the question. “I asked the Inspector,” he said. “He was quite happy to tell me where I could find you.”

  “Ah,” Gwen said.

  She climbed out of the carriage and started to walk towards Cavendish Hall. The coachman had stopped a small distance from the building, just so she wouldn’t be seen getting out of the carriage right in front of it. Discreet, she considered, although probably not as discreet as he thought. Gwen wasn’t that unrecognisable.

  Shaking her head, she walked into the building and headed up to her office. She could check the clerks, make sure they’d done a good job, and then head to bed. Tomorrow was going to be a very busy day.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gwen hadn’t slept very well after climbing into bed, even though she’d been exhausted. The nightmares about the undead crawling through London – where her powers seemed to have failed and all she could do was stare helplessly as they approached her – had been particularly bad. The undead seemed to have had the faces of her family... she had woken up at six in the morning, drenched in sweat and hadn’t been able to get back to sleep.

  “You have some letters,” Martha said. Somehow, her maid always seemed to know when she was awake. “Three of them look quite important.”

  Gwen scowled. She’d briefed the clerks carefully on what they could handle, what could be passed to Doctor Norwell and what had to be put aside for her, but she expected some teething problems. At least Doctor Norwell could supervise them for a couple of days, after which she would have to place her trust in the young men. But anything addressed to her personally would probably be given to her...

  She took the letters from Martha and inspected them carefully. Five of them looked to be letters from people who expected the Royal Sorceress to drop everything and help them with their problem; she put them aside for later attention and looked at the important letters. One of them was clearly from Lord Mycroft – she recognised his clerk’s handwriting – but the other two were unfamiliar, even though one of them was written in a feminine hand. Puzzled, she opened the envelope and scanned the letter quickly.

  “Lady Elizabeth Bracknell requests the honour of Lady Gwendolyn Crichton’s company,” she read out loud, “and would be happy to host her at Bracknell Hall...”

  It was a puzzling letter; Lady Elizabeth had written as if she’d been writing to a man, rather than to another woman. Gwen’s position in London was somewhat atypical, but she didn’t need to be so formal. And if she were inviting Gwen to a ball, why not say so? It sounded more like she wanted a private discussion. There was certainly no time or date attached, suggesting that Gwen could set her own time.

  She reread the letter to see if there was anything she’d missed, but found nothing. At a guess. Lady Elizabeth was unused to sending letters requesting anyone’s presence, which did make a certain kind of sense. One didn’t send formal invitations to one’s girlfriends to visit... unless a formal ball was planned, whereupon sending an invitation was officially required. But Gwen was hardly one of Lady Elizabeth’s girlfriends...

  Gwen sat down at her desk, found a writing pad and a pen, and sketched out a quick reply, promising to visit the following morning. Lord Bracknell had a flat in Pall Mall – like everyone else with the connections and money to secure one – but his wife and daughter lived out on the edge of London, near some prime hunting ground. Gwen made a mental note to check up on the family’s finances before visiting, just in case they had an additional motive for murdering Sir Travis. But it seemed unlikely that they would murder him and then ask the person investigating his murder to visit their home.

  Once she’d sealed the reply in an envelope and dropped it down the chute to the mail room, she opened the second letter. David had ordered it sent, the cover letter stated; it was a copy of Sir Travis’s will. The writer had added a note saying that she would have received a copy anyway, something that puzzled her until she looked at the top sheet of the will. Sir Travis had appointed the Royal Sorcerer as the executor.

  He must have meant Master Thomas, she thought, as she checked the date. The will had been written nine months ago, back before Gwen had been an apprentice. Sir Travis, like everyone else, must have assumed that Master Thomas was effectively immortal, if only because no one had wanted to think about what would happen when he died. And if Master Thomas had known about him...

  She scowled. There was probably an explanation somewhere within Master Thomas’s notes, but she had yet to find it. Just another matter that he hadn’t had time to tell her before he died, if he’d decided to share it at all. For all she knew, Sir Travis had been quietly delighted not to have to report to a slip of a girl.

  Pushing the thought aside, she skimmed through the will quickly, looking for anything that might have provided a motive for murder. There was almost nothing; the estate was to go to his closest living relative, along with almost all of his possessions. A set of notebooks and a small sum of money were to go to Sir Charles – there was a wry comment in the will that they should help him write his dispatches that made Gwen smile – and another small sum of money was to go to Polly. Not enough to let her avoid working for the rest of her life, Gwen noted, but enough to give her a few options she wouldn’t otherwise have. But there was no mention of any jewels.

  And no mention of Lady Bracknell, Gwen thought, as she read it a second time. But that wasn’t too surprising either. The marriage had been arranged after the will had been written; Sir Travis wouldn’t have rewritten it in favour of his wife until after they were actually married. In fact, the only clause that stood out was a request that certain trophies Sir Travis had taken while in India were to be donated to the Diogenes Club. The list included several tiger heads, a set of artefacts from Central Asia and a handful of books written in Arabic.

  Shaking her head, she wrote out a short message for Norton to meet her in her office in thirty minutes, dropped it down the chute and opened the third envelope. It was a brief note of introduction to Ambassador Talleyrand, signed by Lord Holdhurst, the Foreign Secretary. Stripped of its flowery language, it requested that the Ambassador grant Lady Gwen an audience; the cov
ering note explained that there was no way they could force Ambassador Talleyrand to agree to speak to Gwen. He was a diplomat and had diplomatic immunity; if he was proved to be the murderer, he couldn’t be punished beyond being expelled from the country.

  Gwen put the note – and Sir Travis’s will - in her purse, then walked down to her office and checked the letters the clerks had left for her to inspect. Most of them were unimportant, although one of them concerned the sighting of weird creatures up near Loch Ness in Scotland and probably merited investigation. If people could become werewolves, why not mermaids? She put it aside for later contemplation and threw the remaining letters – mainly ones complaining about her appointment – in the fire. She didn’t need to reply to those.

  “My Lady,” Geoffrey Norton said, as he entered the room. “How may I be of service to you?”

  “Master Thomas was appointed to serve as the executor of Sir Travis’s will,” Gwen said. She didn’t bother to explain. By now, everyone in London would probably know about the murder. “I assume that duty has also devolved onto me?”

  “Almost certainly, unless there was a specific provision in the will against it,” Norton confirmed. “May I see the document?”

  Gwen produced it and handed the document to him, then waited as patiently as she could for him to finish reading it. He took much longer than her, but he had been a lawyer before Mycroft had recommended him for the Royal Sorcerers Corps. He’d be sure to read every line before committing himself to an opinion.

  “There’s nothing too unusual in this will, although some of its terms are rather vague,” Norton said. “You’d have to compile a list of everything Sir Travis owned, assign it to the person laid down in the will and then certify that you had done so... it could be challenged by his family, but I suspect that they would be unsuccessful. He wasn’t trying to prevent them from claiming Mortimer Hall and everything else was his to dispose of as he pleased.”