The Great Game (Royal Sorceress)

by Nuttall, Christopher

  “Or could be blackmailed,” Gwen said, quietly. “What would you do if someone in your employ came to you and said that he was being blackmailed?”

  “His career would be at an end,” Lord Mycroft said. He held up a hand before Gwen could protest. “I wouldn’t have a choice. Someone who could be blackmailed could be subverted by someone else...”

  “But he wouldn’t want to lose everything,” Gwen objected. It didn’t seem fair that someone’s life could be destroyed by what they’d done in the past. “He’d lose both his career and his reputation.”

  “Life is far from fair,” Lord Mycroft reminded her.

  “Howell’s notes asked what happened to your sister,” Gwen said, wondering how he would respond. She hadn’t even known that Lord Mycroft had had a sister. “What happened to her?”

  Mycroft didn’t look surprised at the question. “She... chose to make her own way in the world,” he said, flatly. There was something in his tone that warned her not to press any further. “I rarely see her; few people do, even when she is right in front of them.”

  Gwen nodded, slowly. “What are we going to do about Sir Travis?”

  Lord Mycroft looked down at his hands. “I’m going to have everything transferred to Cavendish Hall,” he said, after a long moment of thought. “You are going to start working your way through everything, from the text of the treaty to the papers that were recovered from Hiram Pasha. Read his journal, study the letters he sent back home... find something, anything, that we can use to salvage the treaty.”

  Gwen frowned. “You believe that the treaty is that important?”

  “France has gobbled up Spain, to all intents and purposes, and is in a loose alliance with Russia,” Lord Mycroft reminded her. “We have a window of opportunity to forge an alliance with the Turks that we can use to counterbalance the two European powers. That window must not be wasted, but it is closing. If we have to renegotiate the treaty, the Turks may assume that we weren’t serious and make whatever deal they can with the French and Russians. The Ottoman Empire could easily serve as a land bridge to India, if they allowed the French free passage.”

  He looked over at the map on the wall. “The Turks have an agreement not to allow hostile warships to pass through the Dardanelles,” he added. “If the Russians manage to force them to break that agreement, we might discover that between them and France our position in the Mediterranean would be seriously compromised. The Turkish navy is badly outmatched without our help, but the Royal Navy would have too many other demands on its fleet if war did break out. More to the point, the Russians could build up a fleet in the Black Sea and then surge forward through the Dardanelles just before the outbreak of war.”

  “Giving them a significant advantage,” Gwen said.

  “More than you might think,” Lord Mycroft said. “The Sultan recently recovered Egypt from the Mamelukes. Most of the unhappy survivors and anyone else who dared object to his new laws have found themselves digging a canal. Once dug, the canal will allow ships in the Mediterranean to transit through into the Red Sea, which will give them access to the Indian Ocean. In short, the French and Russians will be able to shift their forces around quicker than the Royal Navy, giving them an advantage at the main point of contact.”

  Gwen considered it. “Do you trust the Sultan?”

  “I expect him to do what he considers to be in Turkey’s best interests,” Lord Mycroft said. “We can hardly expect him to stand up to the French or Russians for us if we don’t make it worth his while. Or give him a decent chance, for that matter.”

  “So we need a reason to avoid renegotiating the treaty,” Gwen said, slowly. “And if we prove that Sir Travis was innocent...”

  “That would help,” Lord Mycroft said, dryly. “I suggest that you take his maid with you, back to Cavendish Hall. She might be able to help.”

  “Of course,” Gwen said, dryly. “What about Howell?”

  Lord Mycroft gave her a surprised look that didn’t fool her for a moment. “What about him?”

  Gwen waited, saying nothing.

  “We knew he was a blackmailer and yet he was untouchable,” Lord Mycroft said. “And now we know that he was a rogue magician – and had other rogue magicians working for him – very few people will complain about how you dealt with him. The fact you destroyed his papers will make you very popular. I don’t think that you have to worry about someone demanding that you stand trial for his death.”

  “Good,” Gwen said. Was it really wrong of her to be relieved that he was dead? “What will happen to his servants?”

  “I believe that is your decision,” Lord Mycroft said. He gave her a crooked smile. “If you wish, you may deport them to Australia or America – there is no shortage of demand for indentured labourers to open up the new territories to the West. They may even buy themselves out of indenture and set up a homestead of their own. It would be better for them than staying in London.”

  “Because someone might kill them because their master employed them,” Gwen said.

  “Indeed,” Lord Mycroft confirmed. “You should interrogate them first, just to make sure how much they actually know. Some of them may have been willing allies.”

  Gwen nodded and stood up.

  “One more thing,” Lord Mycroft added. “I understand that you are going to the ball this evening with Sir Charles.”

  Gwen nodded, unable to conceal her shock. How had he known?

  “Sir Charles bought you both tickets,” Lord Mycroft said. “Lady Fairweather – you will recall her, of course – sold tickets to raise money for orphaned children; Ambassador Talleyrand served as the major draw, of course. Hopefully, it will be less exciting than the last time you attended one of their balls.”

  Gwen snorted. The last time she had visited Fairweather Hall, Jack had announced his presence by tossing a dead man’s head at the dancers. His brief skirmish with Master Thomas had marked the start of the war to shape Britain’s future. Since then, Gwen had largely tried to avoid balls, particularly ones hosted by her mother. If Sir Charles hadn’t invited her, she wouldn’t have gone to the ball, even if the hostess had sent her a personal invitation.

  “Sir Charles seems to have taken the accusations against his friend personally,” Lord Mycroft warned her. “I would appreciate it if you could convince him not to do anything rash. Matters are in a very delicate state right now and we don’t need a rogue element confusing everyone further.”

  “Rash,” Gwen repeated. The word sound ominous. “Like...?”

  “I believe he was talking about challenging Inspector Lestrade to a duel,” Lord Mycroft said, diffidently. “Such a duel would not be remotely legal, of course, but the Inspector would be hard-pressed to refuse the challenge without losing too much face. Being a policeman requires physical courage far more than intelligence, as Lestrade has proven on numerous occasions.”

  Gwen scowled. When had she become Sir Charles’s keeper?

  Because you like him – and because he listens to you, her thoughts answered.

  “It would be very bad if one of them did kill the other,” Lord Mycroft said. His voice darkened. “Please try to keep them apart.”

  It was an understatement, Gwen knew. Lestrade was a police inspector, technically exempt from the code duello; Sir Charles could be charged with murder, no matter how willingly Lestrade had entered the duelling ground. And Sir Charles was a public hero. Lestrade’s career would be destroyed if he killed Sir Charles, even if he’d been the challenged rather than the challenger.

  “I’ll do my best,” Gwen said, wondering if she could separate the two without losing Sir Charles’s respect for her. And Lestrade probably wouldn’t be happy either. Men! Pride got them killed far more often than anything else. There were times when she was glad that she had been born female. “And thank you for your time.”

  “Bring us an answer, Lady Gwen,” Mycroft said, looking back at the chessboard. “And keep an eye on Talleyrand. You can never trust a Frenc
hman too far.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Sir James met her as soon as she returned to Cavendish Hall.

  “I have four Talkers attached to Merlin for this evening,” he said, once Gwen had ordered Sir Travis’s papers moved to her study. “If that French girl tries anything, we’ll stop her.”

  Gwen nodded. The Royal Sorcerers Corps had been trying to work out how many important people Simone might have met before Gwen had realised that she was a Talker, but it seemed unlikely that they had identified them all. God alone knew how much information the girl had pulled out of their minds and passed on to her father. If Howell could intimidate Polite Society, what could someone like Ambassador Talleyrand do with a mind-reader at his command?

  “Make sure they stay close to her,” she ordered. “What about the rest of the security?”

  “Merlin will remain on guard, along with a number of private guards,” Sir James said. “I don’t think that anyone will try anything.”

  “That’s what they thought last time,” Gwen said. Sir James had been in India when Jack had crashed the Fairweather Ball. “We will take every possible precaution.”

  Sir James nodded. “You’ll be there too,” he added. He hesitated, then grinned at her. “Is it so wrong of me to prefer fighting to going to balls?”

  “It’s a different kind of warfare,” Gwen said, remembering some of her mother’s stories. The aristocratic balls often served as cover for secret negotiations between different families, or even political factions. People who would never speak to each other outside a ball could do so naturally while dancing, if they saw fit. Or simply borrow a room in the host’s house and have a private conference. “But I prefer fighting too.”

  She ensured that Polly would have a room and a chance to rest in Cavendish Hall, then walked upstairs to where Martha and Lady Elizabeth were waiting for her. Martha had been excited to discover that Gwen was going to a ball, her first in sixth months, and had gone looking for a dress for Gwen while Gwen had been in Whitehall. Gwen didn’t see why her maid was so excited – normally, she would have been happy to let Martha go in her place – but decided to tolerate it. Besides, she wanted to look her best for Sir Charles.

  “It’s a shame your hair is cut so short,” Lady Elizabeth said, as they helped Gwen to undress and started washing her body. “Can you make it grow outwards?”

  “No quicker than anyone else,” Gwen said. Maybe a Changer could have extended her hair, but it would have been unacceptably dangerous. “Long hair just kept getting in the way,”

  “Black would have been unsuitable,” Martha said, as she produced the dress. “I chose green instead; it’ll go well with your hair, as well as making a fashion statement of sorts.”

  Gwen smiled as she saw the dress. It was simple, thankfully; she strongly disliked the complex dresses that forced the wearer to ask for help to dress or undress. Besides, the Royal Sorceress wasn’t expected to wear something too ornate. There was no way of knowing when she’d have to fight. If worst came to worst, she could tear off the dress itself and fight in her underclothes, which were almost as modest

  “You won’t be showing off too much,” Martha added, as Gwen pulled the dress over her head. “Maybe you won’t look like a man, but you won’t look too much like a young woman either.”

  Gwen looked in the mirror, then nodded. The Trouser Brigade might shock public opinion by wearing tight trousers – and some girls scandalised Polite Society by wearing dresses that revealed their cleavage – but she looked conservative, yet not too feminine. It wouldn’t be good to have people she had to work with thinking of her as feminine, even after she’d proved herself more than once. Men never seemed to like the idea of a woman with more power than themselves.

  She smiled, suddenly. Once, years ago, she had considered trying to dress up as a man and sneaking into Oxford of Cambridge. Most of the lectures were barred to women, particularly the ones that interested her – but quite a few women had sneaked in over the years. There had even been a major scandal when Gwen had been a child. Maybe she should have suggested posing as a man to Master Thomas. It might have made it easier to work as the Royal Sorceress.

  But I would have had to duck marriage proposals, she thought, ruefully. She hadn’t realised how many proposals Master Thomas had received until she’d seen his private cabinet. There had been no shortage of ambitious society dames willing to propose that he marry their daughters or granddaughters, even though he’d been an old man. But that might have been the point. Whoever married him might not be out of their twenties by the time he died.

  “You look good,” Lady Elizabeth said. She started to work on Gwen’s face, dabbing cosmetics against her cheeks. “Do you really need to carry the weapons?”

  Gwen nodded. “If I don’t carry them, I’ll need them,” she said. Besides, after six months, she felt naked without them. “Besides, I might want to kill someone without using magic.”

  Lady Elizabeth suddenly frowned. “Will my parents be attending?”

  “I don’t know,” Gwen admitted. Guest lists were often published prior to the ball, but she hadn’t had a chance to look at one. “But I would be surprised if they missed it.”

  “Tell them that I’m fine and actually doing something useful,” Lady Elizabeth said, softly. “I don’t want to see them again, ever.”

  “Forever is a very long time,” Gwen said.

  She shook her head, ruefully. They had something in common now, didn’t they? Gwen didn’t want to see her parents again either... no, that was a lie. Part of her mind wanted to mend her relationship with her parents, no matter what they’d done in the past. Lady Mary might have killed Gwen’s half-sibling, but she’d also kept Gwen even after it would have been easier to give her away. And they hadn’t objected when Master Thomas had come to claim Gwen.

  Martha steered her back towards the mirror, allowing Gwen to study her reflection. Her face was fashionably pale, showing off her eyes and blonde hair, while the dress fitted her perfectly. The weapons she had on her person were completely invisible. Gwen picked up Master Thomas’s cane and leaned on it, before reluctantly putting it down beside the bed. It couldn’t go with her tonight.

  “Perfect,” Martha said, firmly. “I understand that Sir Charles is picking you up from Cavendish Hall?”

  Gwen nodded. It might have been wiser to meet up somewhere closer to Fairweather Hall, away from so many prying eyes, but she was making a statement. She would not be bound by convention, no matter how many of society’s grand dames disapproved. Besides, she had good reason to believe that many of society’s queens had their own dark secrets. Who would have thought that Lady Mary could kill her own child?

  “The side entrance,” Gwen said. “Once he arrives, I’ll walk downstairs and meet him.”

  She was feeling a curious mixture of excitement and nervousness when the guardhouse finally called through to say that Sir Charles had arrived. Gwen shared a look with Lady Elizabeth, then picked up her skirts and walked down the stairs, ignoring the handful of students and tutors she met on the way. A couple of them actually gaped at her, as if they were having problems connecting the dark-clothed Royal Sorceress with the blonde girl in front of them. Her modified suit had the distinct advantage of making her look older.

  Lord Nelson was a boy when he took command of a boat, she reminded herself. Of course, whoever had heard of a woman commanding a ship? There were stories of female pirates, but they’d always been disguised as men. It seemed odd that their crewmen would fall for it, yet Gwen knew how easily the male eye could be fooled. Sometimes, just wearing a male outfit was enough to prevent them from looking any closer.

  Sir Charles had hired a larger carriage for the evening, she realised, as he stepped down to help her climb into the vehicle. Gwen smiled at him, feeling a sudden urge to take him in her arms and press her lips against his, even though they were in public. But it would have ruined her face as well as her reputation.

  “You look
wonderful,” he said, as he pulled the door closed. “I trust that I look acceptable?”

  Gwen looked at him. He was wearing a white Indian suit, complete with turban, flashing jewels and a sword at his belt. Lady Fairweather had released men from the normally strict rules of fashion, either through a desire to shock or simple boredom; Gwen wondered how many of her guests would have their own Indian outfits. But then, Sir Charles had actually been in India. How many of the other guests could make that claim?

  “I took it off a nabob who was too dead to complain that I was stealing it,” Sir Charles told her. He tapped one of the gemstones on his lapel. “The natives love dressing up and wearing flashy jewels. One particular kingdom had an army that was better dressed than any other, but lacked proper weapons or tactics. We had to force the men not to loot after we smashed the enemy formation and crushed them.”

  Gwen shrugged. She, of all people, understood the difference between looking good and actually being good.

  The ride was surprisingly smooth, allowing her to relax and enjoy his presence. Normally, even on London’s roads, the carriage would have rattled so badly that she would be unable to read or write; she dreaded most of her trips out of the city because she always ended up with a headache when she reached her destination. This time... Sir Charles drew back the curtain, allowing her to see out of the carriage. An odd sense of déjà vu ran down her spine as Fairweather Hall came into view.

  Jack and Master Thomas had fought, briefly, in Fairweather Hall. The battle hadn’t lasted longer than a few minutes, but between them they had done serious damage to the building’s structural integrity. Gwen had heard that the Fairweather Family had spent thousands of pounds repairing their ancestral home, yet it had taken months before the building was ready for human occupancy. The ball was about announcing their return to society as much as it was about Ambassador Talleyrand.

  “It looks intact,” Sir Charles commented. He sounded almost disappointed. “The reports made it sound as though it was a pile of rubble.”