The Great Game (Royal Sorceress)

by Nuttall, Christopher

  “And when,” Gwen demanded, “am I meant to find the time to do that?”

  “Oh, you could appoint a surrogate,” Norton said. “Master Thomas often used a lawyer working for the Corps to take care of such matters – this is hardly the first time he was named as the executor for a magician’s will. You’d have to read their final report before distributing the various bequests, but you could leave him to do the rest of the work.”

  Gwen nodded. “Could you handle it?”

  “Perhaps, if you didn’t mind me spreading the work over the next week,” Norton said. “I could focus on it exclusively, but it might not speed the process up; I’d have to send enquires to various banks and suchlike and they don’t always respond rapidly...”

  “Do it as quickly as possible,” Gwen said. She hesitated, then asked the next question. “Could you also inspect his mother’s will?”

  Norton frowned. “Perhaps,” he said. “But I assume that was handled by someone else...?”

  “There was a bequest in it to give her jewels to the serving girl,” Gwen said, shortly. “I would like to discover if she received those jewels – and, if not, what happened to them.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time someone just kept quiet about a specific bequest,” Norton said. “I shall certainly look into it... however, I should warn you that it may be difficult to force them to surrender the jewels. The court might just rule that the will was overridden by Sir Travis’s will and as he made no mention of the jewels...”

  “Let me know what you find out,” Gwen said. Given how Polly had been treated, both by Sir Travis and the police, it would be a good thing to make sure she actually got the jewels she had been promised. “One other question, then; do you know anything about the Bracknell Family’s current circumstances?”

  “Lord Bracknell is a judge,” Norton said. “He will have had plenty of opportunities to enrich himself, even if he didn’t have old money. I wouldn’t have thought that they’d be in any trouble. The Swing only bankrupted families who kept all of their property in London.”

  Gwen nodded. It was looking increasingly unlikely that the Bracknell Family was responsible for Sir Travis’s death; hopefully, she would be able to confirm that when she visited Lady Elizabeth. At least that would reduce the number of potential suspects...

  “Thank you,” she said, as she stood up. “Contact me once you have completed your first survey of the estate.”

  The dining hall was surprisingly full so early in the morning. Sir James and three of his comrades had taken over one of the tables and were arguing over a large map of London, trying to determine the best way to protect the King when he toured his city. Gwen suspected that the simplest answer would be to wrap the King in a protective bubble the moment he left the Palace, but George IV wouldn’t like that idea. He’d spent too long estranged from his subjects before the Swing had shaken his faith in the government.

  She took her chair, ordered breakfast and picked up a copy of The Times. The headline proclaimed there to have been an OUTRAGEOUS MURDER AT MORTIMER HALL, with a few details of the crime scene that were largely inaccurate. Someone had probably been speaking to the policemen who’d been ringing the building, Gwen decided, rather than the ones who’d seen the dead body. An underlying note stated that the police already had a suspect in custody; the writer had outdone himself describing the savage nature of the Africans, as if Polly hadn’t been a child when she’d been rescued. It concluded with a strong suggestion that hiring such people as servants was inherently dangerous.

  Maybe that reporter won’t have a career for much longer, Gwen thought. It didn’t take much to whip up racial hysteria – and slave-owners would not appreciate demands for any laws that threatened their human property. They had enough problems with Royal Navy officers refusing to help slavers, or cracking down on them at the slightest provocation. Strings would be pulled and the reporter would find himself out of work.

  She read through the rest of the article quickly. There was a brief outline of Sir Travis’s career in India, but no mention of his magic – or of his visits to Istanbul. Or, for that matter, of an engagement to Lady Elizabeth. Anyone who knew about the engagement was unlikely to mention it to the press; if no one knew about it, the engagement might as well have never happened. It was unusual for a man to object to marrying a woman who had been previously engaged, but it had been known to happen. The Bracknell Family would probably prefer not to take that chance.

  There was no mention of her involvement, Gwen was pleased to see. Whoever had provided the information to the reporter clearly hadn’t known that she was there. Still, the reporter had done quite enough damage. Gwen would have been surprised if the heirs waited until tomorrow before registering their claims. Mortimer Hall might have been allowed to grow a little unruly – Polly couldn’t have hoped to keep it clean and tidy indefinitely, at least not without additional servants to help – but it was in a good part of London. Someone who moved in and cleaned it up would be well-placed to join the next social season.

  Lord Brockton entered the dining hall and started to take his seat on the other end of the high table. Gwen waved to him and pointed to a seat next to hers; reluctantly, he left the seat he’d been holding and came to join her. No doubt he’d been hoping to avoid her as much as possible.

  “I am required to investigate the murder of Sir Travis, one of our magicians,” Gwen said, when he sat down. “During that time, I expect you and the other Head of Departments to continue running your sections; Doctor Norwell and Sir James will handle any disputes over resources, training facilities and suchlike. Should something happen that requires my attention, you may use a Talker to summon me.”

  A complex range of emotions flickered over Lord Brockton’s puffy face before he nodded. “As you command, Milady,” he said. He didn’t sound happy; if something went wrong while Gwen was away from Cavendish Hall, it would be hard for him to blame her for it. Not that would stop him trying, of course. “However, Sir James...”

  “Has a great deal of experience melding the different talents,” Gwen said. She wondered – with a faint glimmer of amusement - just how he planned to object. No one could question Sir James’s masculinity – or his experience. Indeed, if Gwen hadn’t existed, he would have been the best choice for Royal Sorcerer. “And, for that matter, in not making other departments feel that they have to fight.”

  Lord Brockton scowled at her, recognising the unsubtle jab for what it was. There were nine members of the Royal Committee – not counting Gwen – and six of them could override her, if they voted together. But Lord Brockton was too good at alienating the other Head of Departments to convince them to block her on the Committee. As long as she was careful, she could keep them from uniting permanently.

  “Very good, Milady,” he said, finally. He sounded as though he were making a great concession, but as long as he accepted it Gwen was prepared to ignore his tone. “I shall respect his judgement.”

  Gwen ordered breakfast, ate quickly and then left the room, pausing just long enough to order Sir James to follow her. Once they were outside the hall, she briefly outlined what she wanted him to do – and warned him to be careful of the Royal Committee. It would be far too easy for Lord Brockton to claim all of the training resources for his Blazers, which would annoy the Movers... and the Charmers tended to cause trouble if left unwatched. The Changers and Infusers required less supervision, but they didn’t like being talked down to by the Blazers... there were times when Gwen wondered if she’d really been asked to supervise a nursery, one where the slightest misspoken word could cause years of hurt feelings.

  “Don’t worry,” Sir James assured her, when she’d finished. He seemed glad of the distraction from Merlin’s routine duties in the capital. “I’ll have Pete keep an eye on him.”

  “Thank you,” Gwen said. Lord Brockton would find it harder to cause trouble if he were supervised by another Blazer, particularly one with such close ties to the Movers. “I sha
ll leave it in your capable hands.”

  Her carriage was waiting outside, as she had ordered. She took a moment to check her appearance, then climbed inside and sat down, forcing herself to run through the meditation routines Master Thomas had taught her. She didn’t know if Talleyrand was a magician – there were rumours about every foreign politician who made himself known to the British public – but the French definitely had their own magicians now. Jack had taught them how to isolate and train the talents in return for being allowed to hide out in France and recuperate, before returning to Britain. It was quite possible that the French diplomat would be accompanied by a Talker or a Sensitive.

  Why not? She thought, wryly. It was undiplomatic, but everyone knew that everyone did it – once they had the magicians, at least. These days, Ambassadors were either escorted or never told anything useful. We send Talkers with our diplomats.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The French Embassy was a huge building, protected by wrought-iron spikes and a handful of armed policemen. It was the most important embassy in London, but also the most vulnerable; youths had been gathering to throw stones over the wall every night since the general public had been told that the French had been responsible for the undead plague in London. Gwen had heard that the protests were causing diplomatic headaches for the Foreign Office; sooner or later, someone was going to get seriously hurt and the headaches would become a nightmare.

  She climbed out of the carriage and walked towards the gate, nodding brusquely to the policemen on duty. A French officer, wearing a resplendent blue and gold uniform, stopped her as she reached the gates and demanded to know her business. Gwen gave him the letter of introduction Lord Mycroft had sent her and smiled as the guard gave her a sharp look. The Quality might claim that women in trousers was a French invention, designed to subvert the social order, but he hadn’t realised that she was female until he’d read her name.

  “Lady Sorceress,” he said, hastily. His English was oddly accented, but understandable. “I shall have to speak to my superior.”

  Gwen waited as he stepped back inside the guardhouse for a brief conversation with another officer, then returned and bowed to her. “Ambassador Talleyrand will be pleased to see you,” he said. “If you will come with me, I will take you to him.”

  The interior of the French Embassy was luxurious. Gwen was tempted to stop and look at each of the portraits separately, remembering names and faces from lessons her tutors had tried to drive into her skull. The various French kings were instantly recognisable, but the others were harder to place. One of them was of Jacques Necker, the Swiss-born statesman who had saved the French financial system and staved off outright revolution. If he’d failed and the uprisings in Paris had spread to the rest of the country...

  She gathered herself as she was shown into a large stateroom. Talleyrand - Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, Ambassador to the Court of St. James – rose to his feet to greet her, holding out one hand to take hers. Behind him, a young girl sat on a chair, her gaze flickering between Talleyrand and his visitor. She couldn’t have been much older than Gwen.

  “Charmed, my dear,” Talleyrand said, in French. He kissed the air just above her hand. “My humble home is honoured by your presence.”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency,” Gwen said, in the same language. Most educated men spoke French, which didn’t always endear them to the lower classes, who blamed France for everything that went wrong in their lives. “I regret that I had to come on business.”

  She sat down on the chair he indicated and studied him thoughtfully. Talleyrand was, according to Lord Mycroft’s file, seventy-seven years old, but he looked remarkably fit for his age. The only sign of vanity was the fashionable wig he wore on his head and a surprising amount of powder on his face, probably concealing the wrinkles. His eyes, however, were bright and clear, studying Gwen with open interest. Lord Mycroft considered him an equal. That, if nothing else, confirmed that he was a very dangerous man.

  The file had been unusually detailed. Talleyrand had limped from a very early age and his family had stripped him of the right to inherit their title, claiming that he was too disabled to uphold their proud military tradition. Instead, Talleyrand had entered the Church and trained as a priest – then become a politician during the unrest that had swept over France in the late 1790s. He’d gained wealth and titles through good advice and diplomatic achievements, even if he had failed to prevent the War of 1800-2. And he’d abandoned his former family to start a new one of his own. Gwen could understand that impulse.

  “When a pretty girl is involved, business is always pleasure,” Talleyrand assured her. He switched to English. “And we may converse in your language, if you wish. I would not like to discomfit you.”

  “I need to practice my French,” Gwen said, which was true enough. It would also force her to think about what she said before she said it. Talleyrand might be flirting with her – the file had stated that he had a remarkable reputation for womanising – but he would also be measuring her for his report to the King of France. She was the Royal Sorceress... and if war came, Gwen would be charged with leading Britain’s magicians into war.

  “I am happy to allow you to practice on me,” Talleyrand said. “I must confess to some curiosity, my dear. Why have you sought out my company?”

  Gwen looked at the other girl, then lifted an eyebrow.

  “My daughter Simone has my full confidence,” Talleyrand added. “She has served as my secretary for the last two years. And she was quite interested when I told her about you.”

  Someone must have told him that I was coming, Gwen thought, coldly.

  “I’m glad to meet you,” she said, giving Simone a smile. “Maybe we can chat later about other matters.”

  The girl looked very shy; indeed, it was hard to see any resemblance between her and Talleyrand at all. Her skin was so pale that it was almost translucent, leaving her dark eyes standing out in her face. The yellow dress she wore attracted the eye away from her beauty. It was quite possible, judging by what had been written in the file, that Talleyrand merely thought that she was his daughter. But there was no way to know for sure.

  She looked back at Talleyrand. “As you may have read in the papers” – and someone at the Foreign Office had probably told him, she added inwardly – “Sir Travis Mortimer was murdered two days ago. You were one of the people who saw him before he died.”

  “I heard,” Talleyrand said. “The papers were full of speculation. I particularly enjoyed the suggestion that his family had killed him after he refused to sell them Mortimer House.”

  Gwen scowled. “I need to ask you some questions,” she said. “What did you and Sir Travis have to talk about?”

  Talleyrand studied her for a long moment, as if he were trying to peer into her soul. “I would prefer not to discuss confidential matters with you, my dear,” he said, in a surprisingly light tone. “However, under the circumstances, there may be little choice.”

  He sighed. “I was aware that Sir Travis had served the British Government as a secret diplomat,” he added. “It was my hope that he could help me to negotiate directly with the Prime Minister and the King.”

  Gwen frowned. There seemed little point in denying it. “How did you know that he was a secret diplomat?”

  “There were French agents in India during his time as an emissary,” Talleyrand said. “One of them identified Sir Travis and reported it to Paris.”

  Sir Charles had talked about a mission to Bukhara where they’d discovered that the Russians already had influence over the Emir. Could the French have been involved too? Or, perhaps, the Russians traded the information to the French in exchange for something they wanted? But then, it was no secret that the French had agents in India; they’d never quite given up on the subcontinent, even after they’d been evicted from the mainland in 1800. Talleyrand might well be telling the truth.

  “So you thought he could help you,” Gwen said, thoughtfully. “
Why didn’t you make a more open approach?”

  Talleyrand gave her a sharp look. “You are aware that your countrymen seem to believe that we unleashed undead monsters on London?”

  Gwen flushed, uncomfortably. That made sense; if the Airship Treaty had to be kept secret, if only because the terms might upset someone, any discussions with the French would have to be even more secret. The Prime Minister could not allow a hint of weakness to slip out or he would be challenged in the Houses of Parliament. And that might weaken his position to the point where the opposition could force a vote of no confidence through the house.

  “So you approached Sir Travis,” Gwen said. “What happened then?”

  “He was reluctant to talk about his time in India,” Talleyrand said. “But after I had convinced him that we had honoured the unspoken convention of not revealing such information, he was willing to approach his superiors for us. I had believed that he would keep his word – I never anticipated that he would be murdered that same night.”

  Gwen suspected that he was probably telling the truth. Logically, the French gained nothing from murdering Sir Travis, particularly if they needed him to do something for them. And besides, if Talleyrand were to be blamed for Sir Travis’s death it would almost certainly start a war, particularly after the Battle of London.

  “The timing must have been very poor,” she mused. “Do you know if you were the last person to visit that night?”

  “My appointment was for just before midnight,” Talleyrand informed her. “And Sir Travis looked tired. I might well have been the last.”

  “Which puts you at the top of the list of suspects,” Gwen pointed out.

  Talleyrand smiled at her. “How – exactly – do I benefit from murdering Sir Travis?

  “At the very least, I would be returned to France in disgrace and my career would be over,” he said. “My enemies in Paris would see to that, even if they didn’t manage to convince the King to hand me over to your country. And I have been working hard to prevent a war between Britain and France. That war might well start if a French diplomat murdered a British citizen. Your people fought a war over one man losing an ear. What will you do if an Ambassador murders a diplomat?”