“You’re right,” she added, before he could say a word. “There are plenty of aristocrats who do not deserve to live. But Sir Travis wasn’t one of them. And even if he was, it wouldn’t make your actions right. You’re just seeking to punish everyone for the crimes of a few.”
She gritted her teeth at a memory. Six months ago, Lord Blackburn had encouraged Lord Liverpool, the Prime Minister at the time, to send troops into London’s poorer districts, stirring up a hornet’s nest. The day before, only a handful of them had supported Jack; the day afterwards, they were all rebels and the Swing had begun. Lord Blackburn had played right into Jack’s hands.
“I can’t let you get away with it,” she said, lifting a hand. “Please, come peacefully...”
Sir Charles moved forward, catching her hand in a vice-like grip. “So they can hang me from the nearest tree?” He asked. “Why should I do that?”
Gwen winced at the pain. “Let go of me,” she ordered. For the first time in far too long, she felt real fear. Few people had managed to hurt her outside training sessions with combat magicians. “Now.”
“Make me,” Sir Charles said.
Gwen reached for her magic...
... And it refused to respond.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Her panic must have shown in her eyes, because Sir Charles began to laugh.
“It was very difficult to fine-tune the talent,” he said, as he pushed her back against the wall. “Staying invisible to Travis was one thing, but other magicians... ah, that was a bit harder. I knew that all magicians are under standing orders to report any strange magical experiences to their superiors and a single mistake would have been far too revealing.”
Gwen couldn’t help a gasp of pain as his grip tightened. Her magic seemed to be curled up inside her, unable to respond to her commands or reach outside her body. Whatever he was doing was powerful enough to hold her helpless.
“You could have gone to Master Thomas,” she said. “He would have helped you.”
“Or would he have killed me out of hand?” Sir Charles asked. “A talent like mine... think how useful it would be to the enemies of the country. Or even just the enemies of Master Thomas. The old man had hundreds of enemies who pissed on his grave after he died. He wouldn’t want a talent like mine to become public.”
Gwen felt the wall against her back and knew that she was running out of time. “You had to have had help,” she said, as another piece of the puzzle clicked together in her mind. “I think you went to work for the French. They helped you to control your powers.”
Talleyrand had visited Sir Travis... and he’d been the last one to see him alive. It was clear, now, what had happened. Talleyrand had given the signal to Sir Charles and his hired Mover and the murders had begun. Sir Travis had been murdered and his papers had been stolen, then Hiram Pasha had been murdered and the papers planted in his house. And then the Mover had been killed, just to seal off the loose ends.
She brought her knee up, trying to strike between his legs as Irene had taught her. But he twisted to one side, then shoved her to the floor, still keeping his grip on her arm. Gwen gasped in pain as her back slammed against the hard wooden flooring, feeling her head spinning from the force of the impact. Whatever undiscovered talent had allowed her to heal herself, without ever realising that she was doing so, must also have been blocked by his power. And he was far stronger than her, physically.
“Do you know everything I did while I was in India?” Sir Charles hissed. “There were hundreds of details I left out of my dispatches.”
He pressed down on her, making it hard for her to breathe. One hand frisked her for weapons, removing two knives and a custom-made revolver Gwen carried in her jacket. He tossed them away as he leered down at her, leaving Gwen in no doubt of what he intended. Without her magic, he could break her... and then take her to France. Jack might have helped them to start up farms of their own. Even if he hadn’t, they had to consider the value of breeding Gwen with other magicians.
She struggled against him as his hand started to caress her throat, then reached up to cover her mouth. Gwen saw her opportunity and bit him as hard as she could. Sir Charles gasped in pain and tried to pull free, but Gwen refused to let go. He couldn’t pull free without letting go of her wrist.
He grunted and pushed her down, slamming her head into the floor. Gwen saw stars, but somehow managed to hold on to her awareness – and his hand. He let go of her wrist and lifted his hand, striking her across the face. Gwen tasted blood – hers or his; she didn’t know – as she felt her magic flare into life. And yet it refused to touch him directly.
Down, she thought, and infused magic into the floor. It started to collapse a moment later, sending them both slipping down towards the basement. Sir Charles caught hold of her, but her magic refused to be snuffed out this time; she realised, dimly, that his magic might require some degree of physical contact to work. But Charm hadn’t worked either... gritting her teeth against the pain, she reached out with her mind, caught hold of his shoes and pushed them away as hard as she could. Sir Charles spun backwards and crashed through the looming hole into the basement. A moment later, Gwen followed.
“Damn you,” Sir Charles grunted. “You utter...”
Whatever he had to say was buried behind a dull roar as the rest of the floor started to collapse inwards. Gwen caught hold of her magic, despite the growing pain in her head, and levitated herself upwards, well out of reach. A moment later, she heard a shot and a bullet narrowly missed her; Sir Charles had somehow caught hold of her revolver. She stared down at him, wrapping a bubble of protective magic around her and smiled coldly. A second bullet bounced off her shields.
“You can’t touch me,” Sir Charles said. He was bleeding from his hand – and a nasty-looking scratch along his face. “And you can’t stay up there forever.”
“I don’t have to,” Gwen said. She hadn’t felt so drained since the day she’d followed Master Thomas back to London, flying over fifty miles in a single night. If he hadn’t sensed her following him, she might have died that night and the undead would have destroyed London.
She wanted to shout, but she didn’t have the energy. “I’m the Royal Sorceress, you filthy traitor.”
“And what,” Sir Charles demanded, “do you think that means?”
Gwen shaped a thought and threw a bolt of energy at him. He stood there... and the bolt dissipated before it even touched him. Gwen scowled inwardly; she hadn’t expected that to work, but she had had to try. Instead, she picked up a piece of debris with her magic and threw it at him as hard as she could. He tried to jump out of the way, but it was too late and it slammed into his arm. Gwen heard it break as he staggered, almost falling to the floor. Somehow, he managed to keep hold of the pistol long enough to fire a third shot at her.
She picked up a second piece of debris and aimed it at his head. Sir Charles opened his mouth, either to curse her or beg for mercy, but the debris struck him before he could say a word. Gwen saw his skull shatter into a mass of bloody chunks, well beyond the ability of any Healer to put back together. The rest of his body dropped to the ground and lay there, twitching unpleasantly. Gwen felt her head swimming and dropped down to the ground, throwing up the moment she landed. It was far too possible that she had a concussion.
“What?” A voice demanded. “What happened?”
Gwen fought her way through the haze that had enveloped her to see the manservant – Fred, Sir Charles had called him – picking his way through the debris towards her. She hoped that he didn’t want to start a fight; she doubted that she had the energy to light a spark, let alone stop someone from hurting her. Somehow, she managed to turn to face him, knowing that she had to look terrible. There was blood and vomit all over her suit.
“Call the police,” she ordered, as she sank to her knees. The world just kept spinning around her. “Tell them to hurry.”
She silently cursed her own mistake as the manservant stumbled off. I
f she’d had the common sense to bring Merlin with her, or even Inspector Lestrade, she wouldn’t have come so close to absolute disaster. She’d been too confident in her abilities, even though she’d had a good idea what Sir Charles could do. All of the other farm children would have to be re-examined, just to see if they had similar talents. Who knew? Maybe there were hundreds of nulls – or whatever they ended up being called – out there.
Slowly, the world stopped spinning around her. Her head still felt fragile, but most of the pain was gone. There was no sign of the manservant... he might have been working for the French and had taken the opportunity to make his escape, rather than doing as he was told. Gwen stood upright gingerly and walked over to Sir Charles. The body had stopped twitching and was clearly dead.
Damn you, she thought, bitterly.
It had been nice to have dreams of a husband, a man who wouldn’t resent her powers or fear what she might do to him if they had a fight. And part of her had fallen in love... or thought it had. But the Sir Charles portrayed in his own dispatches had had little in common with the real Sir Charles. She supposed that shouldn’t have been such a surprise. The versions of Gwen herself, particularly the caricatures from Grub Street, were almost completely unrecognisable.
Her lips twitched in a moment of black humour. She’d kept and framed the cartoon that had her turning the Royal Committee into frogs. There were times when she wished she could do just that.
She bid the dream a silent farewell and then turned and walked away from him, looking for the way up to the ground floor. The manservant had come down the stairs... she scowled, looking at the mess she’d made of the house, then picked her way up them carefully. She simply didn’t feel like levitating herself out of the rubble. Her head still felt fragile.
There was no sign of the manservant, she realised, as she looked around, but the entire building seemed to be on the verge of collapse. She forced herself to move faster as she walked towards what remained of the front door, recovering her hat and coat as she fled. Moments after she made it outside, there was a crash as part of the roof fell in, burying Sir Charles below the rubble. Gwen couldn’t help giggling as she realised that she would probably have to pay to rebuild the house from scratch. Her magic had done far more damage than she’d intended to do.
Sitting down in the garden, she removed her stained jacket and pulled the coat on, covering her undershirt. Lady Mary would have said that it was indecent, but Lady Mary wasn’t there... Gwen scowled as she realised that she owed her mother an apology. It would have been so easy to allow Sir Charles to take her virginity, no matter the risks. And part of her had wanted just that.
You were lucky, she told herself, sternly. But she didn’t feel lucky.
She looked around, wondering if the police were ever going to come. Someone must have heard the building falling inwards... she cursed her own mistake in sending the coachman away, even though she hadn’t really wanted witnesses. If she’d left him outside, she could have sent him for the police...
Lord Brockton would sneer in his oh-so-polite manner, wondering out loud just how the Royal Sorceress could have been so stupid. And he would have been right, Gwen admitted to herself; she had been stupid. For once, his sarcastic comments and biting remarks would have found a deserving target. Lord Mycroft, on the other hand, would merely be disappointed in her. That, she suspected, would feel worse than Lord Brockton’s sneers.
Maybe I should resign, she thought. It was funny how she’d never really considered resigning before, but that had been before her emotions had almost cost her everything. I could let someone else take the job.
But there was no one else who could handle the job.
She looked up sharply as she felt a touch on her mind, looking around for the Talker who had to be somewhere nearby. Simone was standing just inside the gates, looking at the debris in dismay. Gwen had to smile at the expression on the French girl’s face. Talker she might have been, but she had probably never seen the results when two magicians went to war.
A moment later, the French girl began to retreat.
“No, you don’t,” Gwen said, and reached out with her magic. Simone was pulled forwards, half-dragged by an invisible force. Gwen felt a moment of amusement at the panic in her eyes, before realising just how much she was acting like Sir Charles by enjoying someone’s terror. But she didn’t allow the guilt to convince her to let Simone go. “Why are you here?”
“I have diplomatic immunity,” Simone said. Her hands fluttered around her body, as if she was trying to brush the magic holding her away. “You can’t do anything to me.”
Gwen wondered if that was actually true. Talleyrand had diplomatic immunity, but she wasn’t sure if that extended to his so-called daughter. Maybe it would have been better if Simone had been classed as an embassy staffer, yet that would have raised eyebrows. She would have been taken for a whore.
“Maybe,” she said, allowing some Charm to shimmer into her voice. “Why are you here?”
“I have diplomatic immunity,” Simone repeated, after a moment of inner struggle. “You cannot use Charm on me.”
“So it seems,” Gwen said. The girl was stronger than she’d realised... but then, being a successful Talker required mastery of one’s mind. Still, if subtle Charm wouldn’t work, blatant Charm would at least keep the girl quiet. “Sit down, put your hands on your head and wait patiently until the police arrive. And then we can go have a few words with your father.”
Simone glared at her as her body complied with Gwen’s instructions, clearly against her will. Gwen felt another moment of guilt, which she pushed aside savagely. Simone’s appearance at Sir Charles’s house confirmed her theory that he’d been working for the French... no doubt his powers had helped Simone come to terms with her own powers. Or maybe Jack had taught her personally. There was no way to know.
Maybe your detractors are right, she thought, as she looked at the silent girl. The guilt was making it harder to think clearly, even though her head felt better. You’ve become worse than Lord Blackburn. At least he restricted his depravities to the lower classes.
Gwen felt Simone’s glare burning into her back as she stood up and started to pace around the garden. Judging by the constant shuffling, the girl was trying hard to break the Charm or discover it’s limits. Gwen briefly considered reinforcing it, just before two police carriages came into view. She shot Simone a triumphant glance as the carriages stopped in front of the house and a number of policemen jumped down onto the streets.
“Inspector Hopkins,” she said, in relief.
“Lady Gwen,” the Inspector said. He looked past her towards the house, taking in the piles of rubble and barely-standing walls. “What the... ah, what happened here?”
“Magic,” Gwen said, tightly. She didn’t want to say anything else in front of Simone, not when it would definitely be passed onwards to Talleyrand – and the French magical researchers. Knowing that something was possible was half the battle. “I need you to secure the house, search it...”
“We know the drill,” Hopkins assured her. He looked down at Simone. “And who is this?”
“I am a French diplomat being held prisoner against my will,” Simone said. She took her hands off her head a moment later, as if she’d only just remembered that they were there. “Your country is in violation of several accords and international treaties that could lead to war.”
Gwen blinked in surprise, then remembered that she’d told Simone to stay quiet until the police arrived. “Lady Simone is going to be escorted back to the embassy by me,” she said, firmly. There was no point in dragging Hopkins into the affair, not when a diplomatic incident would destroy his career. If there was blame, better it all fell on Gwen. “Can we borrow one of your carriages?”
Hopkins looked as if he wanted to ask questions, before thinking better of it. “There will be other officers on the way,” he assured her. “You are welcome to borrow one of the carriages.”
“Thank you
,” Gwen said. She looked back at Simone, still sitting on the ground. “It’s time to go and meet your father.”
“A formal complaint will be filed,” Simone informed her, as she stood up. The Charm seemed to have completely worn off. “You will certainly be called to answer for your crimes.”
“You and me both,” Gwen said, as she led the way towards the carriage. The Privy Council would be pleased to know that the treaty hadn’t been deliberately slanted towards Turkey, but the doubters would still be looking for ways to refuse to ratify the agreement. “You and me both.”
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she needed food. Probing inside her coat, she found the chocolate bars she’d developed a habit of carrying and took them out, silently relieved that they hadn’t melted in the heat. Simone would probably want one too... she hesitated, then passed one of the bars to the French girl. She stared at it numbly for a long second and then put it in her pocket.
Gwen motioned for Simone to climb inside the carriage, then looked over at Hopkins. “I need you to send a message to Whitehall,” she added. “Please ask Lord Mycroft to convene the Privy Council tomorrow, as early as possible. I’ll make a full report then.”
“Understood,” Hopkins said. He looked up into the darkened carriage, then back at Gwen. Surprisingly, he seemed concerned for Gwen herself. “Are you sure you know what you are doing?”
Gwen smiled. “For the first time in a week,” she said, “I am absolutely sure that I know what I am doing.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Imust say,” Talleyrand said, “that your treatment of my daughter was abominable.”
Gwen tried to conceal her amusement, although she was fairly sure that an experienced diplomat like Talleyrand would have seen it on her face.
“Your daughter was involved in a murder, as were you,” Gwen said. “I do not believe that she will be welcome in this country any longer.”
Talleyrand lifted a single eyebrow. “I do beg your pardon?”
The Great Game (Royal Sorceress) Page 35
