The Great Game (Royal Sorceress)

by Nuttall, Christopher

  “It is the way it is because certain people find that it keeps them in power,” Gwen interrupted. “And if that power is nothing more than the ability to determine which particular style of dress is in or out, it’s pathetic. Let those who are without sin throw their stones at me, Doctor. It’s caring about society’s opinion that will get me into trouble. If they want to talk, they can talk. I won’t let myself care.

  She gave him a sweet smile. “My reputation is mud,” she added. “Who cares if it gets worse?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ionly heard a few rumours about Mr. Howell,” Lucy said. “We were told never to go near him.”

  She’d aged in the six months since the Swing, Gwen realised, silently berating herself for not spending more time with the Healer. Lucy’s once-red hair was shading to grey, while her face was lined and worn. All magic took a toll, but Lucy might be being pushed too far – and yet, Healing was an incredibly important talent. There were hundreds of men and women who would live full lives because of her.

  “I guess he had little to do with the Rookery,” Gwen said, as she studied the hospital ward. Healers automatically had a great deal of authority – and Lucy had used hers to insist that the hospital be thoroughly cleaned before she started to treat patients. Doctors had known about germs for several years, but a surprising number of them had refused to take any precautions until after the Swing. “No one to blackmail there.”

  “Probably not, no,” Lucy agreed. “And most of the people there would resort to violence if blackmailed. It only works if you have someone who would rather pay up than fight, or accept public exposure.”

  She gave Gwen a sidelong look. “But that wasn’t really what you came to talk to me about, was it?”

  Gwen nodded, reluctantly. She’d forgotten just how perceptive Lucy was – but then, she’d grown up in the Rookery, where the slightest mistake could bring death.

  “No,” she admitted. “I need advice.”

  She briefly outlined her meeting with Sir Charles – and how she’d lost her temper at Doctor Norwell, after he’d questioned her. Lucy listened in silence, without leaping to judgement; few people from the Rookery cared much about society’s protocols. Gwen had been shocked the day Jack had shown her the Rookery and the horrors that lurked within the poorer parts of London. Even after the Swing, the problems blighting the area had not been banished overnight.

  “Sounds like you have it bad,” Lucy observed, when she finished. “Or perhaps you just want to rebel against your parents.”

  Gwen snorted. “My parents?”

  “Metaphorically speaking, of course,” Lucy said. “Young men seek independence at the earliest possible moment – or become mummy’s boys, if the mother keeps them tied too close to her. Girls, on the other hand, don’t seek independence until they’re much older. You’re old enough to feel that you should be carving out your own destiny.”

  She winked at Gwen. “You’re also at the age where you could make some really bad decisions,” she added. “Do you know how many mistakes you could make? You could wind up pregnant and married to a man who is genuinely unsuited to you, or an unmarried mother, or... or dead, if you took the wrong substance. Why do you think that girls are allowed so little freedom at your age.”

  Gwen scowled. She’d always considered that such social controls existed to allow the parents to draw the maximum advantage from their female offspring – after all, a girl couldn’t carry on the family name. But were they also there for the girl’s protection? Would she prefer the right to make her own mistakes, and suffer the consequences, or to be wrapped in swaddling cloth and shielded from the ills of the world?

  “I think I’d prefer to make my own mistakes,” she said, finally.

  “That’s what my previous employees used to say,” Lucy said. There was a tart note to her voice. “And you know what happened to them.”

  “They became prostitutes,” Gwen said, tonelessly.

  “I was one of the good ones,” Lucy said. “I never worked my girls to death. There were others who took girls who had nowhere else to go and forced them to work until they died... or worse. People who make really bad choices can fall a very long way.”

  She smirked, suddenly. “There’s a Lord who has been here three times in the last six months,” she added. “He... likes it rough, I think. If it wasn’t for me, he’d be crippled by now.”

  Gwen didn’t want to know the details. “Is it wrong of me to want to blaze my own path?”

  Lucy turned to look at her. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” she said, sardonically, “but aren’t you already blazing your own path?”

  Gwen flushed. “I meant with a man, not with magic,” she snapped. “Is it wise of me to let Sir Charles court me?”

  “He seems rather pushy,” Lucy observed. “But then, just how does one approach the Royal Sorceress? You may well be emancipated from parental controls – in that case, he would have to approach you rather than your family.”

  That was true, Gwen knew. Lord Rudolf had signed her over to Master Thomas – and Master Thomas was dead, without naming a Guardian for Gwen. Given that she was already seventeen, she was effectively in charge of her own estate – rare, but not unusual for a young girl. One of David’s attempts at courtship had been aimed at a young girl whose parents had died in India, leaving her alone in the world. She’d had a freedom Gwen had envied at the time.

  And if Gwen was emancipated, anyone who wanted to court her would have to court her, rather than her family.

  “You toffs do make life complicated for yourselves,” Lucy added. “I really shouldn’t complain. My business wouldn’t have been so profitable if you hadn’t wrapped sex up in all manner of complex rituals.”

  She chuckled as Gwen blushed furiously.

  “My advice?” She added. “If you want him, run – but don’t run too fast. Men tend to hold something they’ve worked for in higher esteem than something they were given freely. But if you don’t want him, tell him as bluntly as you can. Men, the poor dears, are very bad at picking up on subtle hints.”

  She shrugged. “Other than that,” she said, “make sure you work out a solid marriage contract. The law gives a man control over his wife’s assets unless he’s already signed his rights away. I’ve known girls who have run into trouble because they thought that love would conquer all and didn’t take a few precautions.”

  Gwen rolled her eyes. “I’ll see how things go,” she said. “What if...”

  Lucy smiled. “You’re reluctant to discuss the practicalities? That’s not a good sign.”

  There was a knock at the door. “Bring her in,” Lucy carolled. “We’re decent.”

  The door was pushed open by a pair of young women wearing white, who stared at Gwen before remembering themselves and wheeling in a bed. Gwen grimaced as she saw the young girl lying on the bed, her left hand badly mangled and her face twisted with pain.

  “A factory accident,” Lucy said, all humour gone from her voice. “They still like using young children, because they can pay them less... but when they’re injured, they’re put out to die. Until now.”

  Gwen silently promised herself that she would have a few words with Lord Mycroft and have the girl’s factory inspected by dour-faced government officials. The new laws, passed after the Swing, should have restricted the employment of young children, but it was often difficult to enforce them. Children were smaller and often nimbler than adults; it was common for them to serve as everything from chimney sweeps to apprentice craftsmen. And, if they breathed in too many fumes while they worked, their lives would be blighted forever.

  Damned workhouses, she thought, angrily. There were always orphans in London... and many of the orphanages specialised in sending their children to work, claiming that it was part of their education. In reality, the managers were trying to make as much money as they could. She promised herself that she would have a few of them inspected too, particularly the ones she helped fund. There was no way
she was going to collaborate with this.

  Lucy nodded to her. “Do you want to try to Heal?”

  Gwen hesitated. Healing should be one of her talents, but she’d never managed to master it – unless she had been Healing herself all along. She’d never really been seriously injured until after she’d become Master Thomas’s apprentice... yet she couldn’t recall any cuts and bruises lasting more than a few hours. And there were other issues...

  “I’ll try,” she said. Healing was an odd talent; very few of the Healers had managed to produce any explanation of what they did. They were governed by instinct. “Can you hold her still?”

  The body wanted to heal, Lucy had told her, when she’d agreed to join the Royal Collage as the nation’s first Healer. All the magician really did was smooth the way, providing energy that would allow the body to heal itself; the trick to Healing wasn’t so much directing the process as it was pushing the body into healing faster. But Gwen suspected that there was more to it than that. Changers and Infusers both pushed magic into objects – or people – and yet neither talent could be used to heal. At best, a Changer might be able to rebuild a broken arm – and yet the results had never been good.

  Gwen closed her eyes as her fingertips touched the girl’s arm, trying to feel the life energy flowing through the girl’s flesh. Or maybe it was magic. No one had ever come up with a real explanation for how magic actually worked... some talents seemed to make sense, others seemed inexplicable. Doctor Norwell seemed confident that the answers would come one day, but it might be years before they were fully understood. Gwen concentrated and felt out the girl’s injury. She heard a moan as her magic shimmered against the girl’s body... and stopped.

  Careful, she reminded herself. Back before she’d known that there were separate talents, she’d actually managed to get them to work together, an achievement in ignorance that had impressed even Master Thomas. But if she accidentally hurt the girl instead of healing her, simply by drawing on the wrong talent, she would never forgive herself.

  “Focus on the wound,” Lucy murmured. “You want to encourage it to heal.”

  Gwen tried, but the magic seemed to refuse to enter the girl. “It isn’t working,” she said, opening her eyes. Why didn’t it work for her? She could feel the potential within her magic, so she had the talent... she just couldn’t use it. And Master Thomas had never developed it either. “Can you deal with her?”

  Lucy nodded and stepped forward, pushing Gwen away from the girl. “Watch,” she said, as she pressed her hand against the girl’s arm. “I begin...”

  Gwen opened her mind and watched the magic ebb and flow. Lucy was pushing magic into the girl effortlessly, as if it was the easiest thing in the world; moments later, the girl’s flesh and bone started to knit itself back together. Within seconds, it looked as good as new, apart from the pale skin. It would take days before the girl’s skin tone was uniform once again.

  And there were people who called it a mark of witchcraft, Gwen reminded herself. She might have to stay here for a week.

  “I don’t understand it,” she said, in frustration. “Why doesn’t it work?”

  “Maybe you just need to practice more,” Lucy said. She smiled as Gwen scowled at her. “Or maybe you can’t Heal because of all the other talents.”

  That made sense, Gwen decided. Blazing and Moving worked well together, but Charm seemed to supersede both Talking and Sensitivity. Her Changing and Infusing were both very limited, although that wasn’t always a disadvantage. An Infuser could do a great deal of damage without any real skill. And Seeing needed her to lie on a bed – or in the bath – and meditate to get any value out of it.

  “Maybe I need someone willing to risk his life to have me experiment on him,” she said, finally. “I might accidentally Blaze him instead.”

  “There won’t be any shortage of volunteers,” Lucy assured her. “Let me know when you want to experiment and I’ll find someone.”

  Lord Brockton, Gwen thought, before deciding that it was unlikely to happen. The Head of Movers loved hunting, but his powers would protect him even if he fell off his horse. Besides, she couldn’t justify experimenting on him – or denying him a proper Healer.

  “Thank you,” she said, as the nurses wheeled the girl back out of the ward. “For everything.”

  She walked back to Cavendish Hall, slipped in through the side entrance and walked up to her office. Doctor Norwell had put Lady Elizabeth in a guest suite, an unsubtle way of hinting that she wouldn’t be staying very long. Irene used the same suite when she visited Cavendish Hall, which was as little as possible. Gwen understood, now, why Irene spent so much time away from England. It was easier to be a free sprit if there were no relatives around.

  Gwen tapped on the door and stepped inside. Lady Elizabeth was lying on her bed, reading a heavy tome; Doctor Norwell had to have found it for her from the Hall’s library. A History of Magic had been written by a government hack and contained so many inaccuracies that anyone trying to use it to understand magic would find it impossible. On the other hand, it was a reasonably accurate – if generalist – picture of just what the Royal Sorcerers Corps had done since it was founded.

  “My mother is probably screaming for her lawyers right now,” Lady Elizabeth said, as Gwen sat down facing her. “Do you think that you’ll get in trouble?”

  “Maybe,” Gwen said. “We need to talk about your duties – but I have something I need to ask you first. How did Howell even find out about your engagement?”

  Lady Elizabeth frowned. “I don’t know,” she said, slowly. “No one knew.”

  Gwen lifted an eyebrow. “No one knew?”

  “Well, I knew,” Lady Elizabeth said, crossly. “My parents knew; Sir Travis knew... but I don’t think that there were many others. There were a couple of witnesses... they wouldn’t have told anyone, would they?”

  “Not if they were sworn to secrecy,” Gwen said. A marriage had to be announced in public – the banns had to be formally read – before it could take place. The contract, on the other hand, could have been kept secret indefinitely. “So how did Howell know that you were engaged?”

  She couldn’t fault the blackmailer’s timing. An engagement made a girl’s reputation all the more important – and she would do whatever it took to preserve it, even if it cost her much of her fortune. But Howell had demanded an impossibly high sum... surely he’d known that Lady Elizabeth couldn’t pay. Or had he intended to bargain?

  “I don’t know,” Lady Elizabeth insisted. “Who could have told him?”

  “That might solve part of the mystery if we actually knew,” Gwen muttered. David had known, Sir Charles had known... she would have to ask them both if they’d shared the information with anyone else. Perhaps someone had intended to court Lady Elizabeth and one of the witnesses had quietly told him that she was already engaged. “Did your servants know? Your maid?”

  “I never tell Janet anything,” Lady Elizabeth said. Her face reddened, suddenly. “Do you realise that she spied on me for ten years? She was never my servant.”

  Gwen felt a moment of sympathy. A servant, particularly a serving maid, was in a good position to know everything about her mistress, even the details that would normally remain strictly private. Gwen’s maids had been too terrified of her to stay long, but Lady Elizabeth wouldn’t have that advantage. Her maid would have reported her to Lady Bracknell if she’d done anything even remotely questionable.

  “I wonder if your father told someone,” Gwen mused. She would have to ask – or, more practically, arrange for David to ask. “Does he have an assistant?”

  She pushed the whole issue aside a moment later. “Let me show you your office,” she said, standing up. “And introduce you to the clerks.”

  “Mother will have another fit,” Lady Elizabeth observed, glumly. “I’ll be working for my pay.”

  “At least you’ll get pay,” Gwen reminded her. Girls rarely had any money of their own, or even control over
their trust funds. “You’ll be free to spend it as you wish.”

  She took Lady Elizabeth to the office Doctor Norwell had opened up for her and started to go through the correspondence the Royal Sorceress received. “Separate them out for me,” she explained. “Anything concerning future deployments for trained magicians can go to Mr. Norton – he’ll take care of it, as long as the magicians don’t leave the country. Hints of new magic should be forwarded to Doctor Norwell; he’s charged with organising their investigation.”

  The memory made her scowl. Only one new kind of magic had been discovered in a decade – and it hadn’t been the Royal College that had discovered it. Gwen had a private suspicion that allowing more researchers to share in the knowledge the Royal College hoarded would lead to new kinds of magic, but it was unlikely that the Committee would agree to share. She couldn’t really blame them either. Anything shared widely enough would reach the enemies of the realm within a week.

  “And hate mail can just be dumped in the fire,” she finished. She smiled at Lady Elizabeth’s expression. No one had ever sent her hate mail in her life, no doubt. She’d seemed practically perfect in every way. “I don’t bother to reply to that sort of junk.”

  While Lady Elizabeth practised with the latest intake of letters, Gwen picked up a sheet of paper and dashed off a quick note to Sir Charles. Tomorrow, she would go with him to the Golden Turk... and she was looking forward to seeing him. And who cared if the rest of Polite Society disapproved?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It’s nice to see you again, Lady Gwen,” Sir Charles said, as she climbed into the carriage.

  “You too,” Gwen said. She took the seat facing him and forced herself to relax. The carriage lurched into life a moment later. “We need to go to the Golden Turk, I am afraid.”

  “It isn’t the sort of place I would bring a normal young lady,” Sir Charles said. “But you’re a very extraordinary young lady.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” Gwen said, with a smile. To her surprise, he smiled back. “But I have to go there, if only to see what Sir Travis owed – and who backed him.”