Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “The armies have failed him,” Gregory continued. “The heathen Turks continue to advance, to threaten the sacred soil of Mother Russia. The diplomats have failed him. We are locked into an alliance with France which threatens to plunge us into another war. His people have failed him. They plot revolution in the streets and plan to take over the military. Even the weather has failed him. The population groans under a famine caused by poor weather and very bad harvests.”

  “So you’re in trouble,” Olivia sneered. She hoped – prayed desperately – that she was wrong, but she feared she wasn’t. “Why do you want me to raise the dead?”

  Gregory’s eyes seemed to gleam brighter with the unholy glow of fanaticism. “I will give the Father Tsar an unstoppable army,” he proclaimed. “The undead will march south into Turkey, crushing the Turks and their collaborators underfoot. Istanbul will return to the Orthodox Faith, while the Muslims and the Hindus are slaughtered and then made to rise again as part of our army. And then there will be France and the rest of the world. It will all belong to the Father Tsar.”

  Olivia stared at him. “You’re mad.”

  His hand moved so fast that she didn’t even realise he was about to hit her until his hand slammed into her face, almost knocking her off the bed. Blood trickled down her nightgown as pain surged through her jaw ... once, she would have taken it in her stride, but now ... now, it cowed her as effectively as Ivan’s Charm. She touched her bruised face and stared up at him, trying to meet his eyes. He showed no hint of doubt, no fear that he might lose control of the undead. But could such a large army ever be controlled by anyone?

  Master Thomas had controlled a force of undead monsters, Olivia knew. But all he’d done was give them general orders, just as she’d done – later. How long could any Necromancer maintain control over an army of thousands, of millions, of undead ... a number so large as to be utterly beyond her imagination? She suspected that no one could handle such a large army, not even the most capable Necromancer in the world. Gregory would be lucky if he got them all going in the right direction ... and God help any of his own people who got between them and their targets.

  It had been years since Haiti had been depopulated by the undead, she recalled. Gwen had told her about the incident, sparing nothing. The local witch doctors had believed they could use a Necromancer and control his powers. Instead, the undead had refused to behave as predicted, broken loose and started to consume the population. French and British troops had been unable to destroy them before the entire island was rendered utterly barren. These days, no one landed on Haiti, no matter how desperate they were. There were quicker ways to commit suicide.

  She tried to imagine the horror the Russians would unleash. The undead were deterred by large amounts of water, but Russia had no natural barriers between itself and the rest of Europe or the Middle East. They’d advance out in all directions, smart enough to overcome enemy defences or crush their way forward by sheer weight of numbers. There would be no stopping them until they reached the English Channel, if then. Half the world’s land surface would belong to the undead.

  “You have to listen to me,” she pleaded. “You can’t control such a large army of undead. You can’t.”

  “We can,” Gregory corrected. He raised his hand to slap her again, then stopped when Ivan shook his head. “The Father Tsar will get his army, young lady, and you will help us to create it.”

  “No,” Olivia said. It was pointless defiance and she knew it was pointless defiance, but she couldn’t just submit any longer. “I won’t help.”

  “You will,” Ivan said. He sounded absolutely confident of success – and he was right, Gwen knew. “You are ours now.”

  “Even I can’t control so many,” Olivia protested. The whispering at the back of her head seemed to be growing stronger. What were they doing to the undead to make them moan and whisper so loudly? The British Empire had never experimented with the undead. They believed the undead far too dangerous to play with, no matter the promise of science. “You can’t control them.”

  Gregory leaned forward until his face was almost touching hers. “I have a plan,” he said. Up close, the stench of urine was almost overpowering. “And you will play your part, as you are called upon to do.”

  He stepped backwards, then turned and marched out of the room. Ivan turned and watched him as he passed through the door, then turned to look at Olivia. His face was deathly pale.

  “You mustn’t talk to him like that,” he warned, frantically. “Don’t you know what he is?”

  Olivia shook her head. Gregory was just another monster in human form, as far as she was concerned, like all the others she’d encountered in the Rookery. There were men who thought nothing of rape or murder, women who killed their partners or sold their children for opium or tobacco ... there were horrors that none of the children at Cavendish Hall could imagine, only a few short miles from their home. How was Gregory any different to the men who planned to slaughter their rivals in bloody street fighting?

  “He’s Skoptzi,” Ivan said. “Do you know what that is?”

  Olivia shook her head. The word meant nothing to her.

  “They’re a ... sect,” Ivan explained. “In the past, they were misunderstood and persecuted by the State, but now they worship Father Tsar. To them, he is a god. He can do no wrong and they will do anything for him. They have nothing in their lives but him.”

  “Oh,” Olivia said. She’d met a few nuns who had no room for anyone in their lives but Jesus Christ. Some of them had been decent enough, willing to work with the poor; others had been just as sweetly condescending as Gwen’s mother. But most of the priests she’d encountered had been more interested in chasing whores than actually spreading the word of God. “And so?”

  Ivan stared at her. “Have you not noticed the smell?”

  Olivia’s lips twitched. “Does he have problems keeping his bladder under control?”

  Ivan didn’t smile. “He’s a eunuch,” he said. “His genitals were removed when he was initiated into the Skoptzi. He will do anything for the Father Tsar because he has nothing else to live for. You have to understand that, Olivia.”

  He leaned forward. “You are in great danger,” he added. “If you don’t learn how to accommodate yourself to the Skoptzi, they will eventually kill you.”

  Olivia watched as he stood up and walked out the door, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Her jaw still hurt – she was uncomfortably aware he might have knocked out a tooth – but a cold resolve had overcome her. She was not going to stay in the complex any longer than she had to. Closing her eyes, she reached out with her mind, falling into the whispering she could hear in her head. If her magic was the only weapon she had, she’d use it, no matter what she’d promised Gwen ...

  ... Because the alternative, she told herself, was worse.

  Chapter Fourteen

  If she had met Raechel openly, Gwen told herself for what felt like the umpteenth time, she would have liked the girl. She was funny, daring and braver than Gwen would have been, without her magic. But as Raechel’s servant, the whole experience was quite nightmarish, threatening social disaster on more than one occasion. Raechel disliked having a nursemaid and it showed. Given half a chance, the girl would slip out of sight and try to leave the house before Gwen could catch up with her. By the time they were finally ready to depart, Gwen was seriously considering just calling a Charmer from Cavendish Hall and having him Charm Raechel into behaving as a young girl should.

  But you were never very well behaved either, her thoughts mocked her, as she packed the bags for the trip to Russia. Raechel didn’t seem to have a very realistic idea of what the weather would be like in the far northern country; she’d packed several dresses that offered very little protection against the cold. Gwen was relieved that she’d managed to check the bags herself before it was time to go. Raechel offering to pack them for herself had tipped her off that something was very wrong.

  “You don’t ne
ed to pack those dresses,” Raechel objected. “They’re dreadfully unfashionable.”

  “They’re also thick enough to provide some protection, My Lady,” Gwen pointed out, feeling her temper fraying. “The weather in Russia is cold, colder than anywhere in Britain. You will freeze to death if you try to wear a summer dress in Russia.”

  Raechel snorted. “As if anyone would care!”

  Gwen bit her lip to keep the rejoinder from coming out of her mouth. If Lady Standish didn’t care about her niece, at least on some level, Raechel would have been married off by now or sent to one of the finishing schools that specialised in turning intelligent young girls into brainless young women with heads full of silly nonsense. Lady Mary had threatened Gwen with one of them, often enough, although she’d never gone through with it. She’d had some problems, Gwen suspected, finding a school that would be willing to take her. Only Cavendish Hall had been interested in recruiting magicians ... and even they had hesitated to take a girl into their employ. If Gwen hadn’t been a Master ...

  “You also need a thick coat,” Gwen continued, pushing her thoughts aside. “Your Aunt has ordered the latest and most suitable fur coats suitable for Russia.”

  “Also dreadfully unfashionable,” Raechel said. She picked up one of the coats and sneered down at it. “You think I can wear this to a ball?”

  “I think you will have to wear it in the streets,” Gwen said. “Unless, of course, you just want to wait at the Embassy while your Aunt and Uncle go to the Winter Palace.”

  “That’s what they’ll want me to do,” Raechel said. She brightened, suddenly. “But there are a great many bright young men serving in our embassies.”

  Gwen groaned, inwardly. She could chase after Raechel in London and try to keep her from making a fool of herself – or her Aunt and Uncle – but in Russia she would be required to actually carry out her mission. And, despite herself, she was actually starting to like the girl, even though she was hellishly annoying. It didn’t seem right to leave her running around on her own while Gwen did her work. Raechel was far too likely to get into trouble.

  “I suppose there are,” she agreed. David had spent time in an embassy, after all. “But most of them will have few prospects ...”

  Raechel snorted. “Who cares about prospects?”

  Gwen sighed and finished packing the bags, then stepped back to survey her work. Unlike most aristocratic women when they went travelling, Raechel only had a couple of large bags, both crammed with dresses, fashionable make-up and a handful of other items she probably couldn’t get in Russia. Lady Standish, on the other hand, seemed to have packed her entire supply of clothes into a dozen large suitcases, most of which wouldn’t be opened while she was in Russia. Gwen had rolled her eyes when she’d seen Janet packing the clothes, wondering if the maids were allowed a suitcase of their own. It turned out that she and Janet were expected to share a single bag between them.

  Good thing I don’t carry the tools of the trade around with me, Gwen thought, with droll amusement. What would Janet make of it if I placed a gun in the bag?

  There was a sharp tapping on the door. Gwen hastily checked to make sure that they were both decent, then opened the door to reveal Romulus. The butler bowed politely to Raechel, then picked up both of the suitcases and carried them out of the door and down the stairs to where the small fleet of carriages were waiting. Gwen shook her head, impressed – despite herself – at the butler’s strength. She’d seen soldiers who would have hesitated to pick up both suitcases at once.

  “Well,” Raechel said. “Farewell London.”

  Gwen said nothing as Raechel checked her appearance in the mirror – for once, she looked surprisingly decent, clad in a long red dress that matched her hair – and then led the way out of the room, descending the stairs as grandly as if she were being presented at Court. Gwen smiled at the thought, then followed her down to where Janet was waiting, their shared suitcase right next to her. Janet looked to be having problems carrying it, Gwen realised, which wasn’t too surprising. She picked the suitcase up, drawing on a little magic to make it easier, and carried it out towards the carriages. The servants were expected to ride in the very last one.

  “A pity Cook isn’t coming,” Janet said, as she scrambled into the carriage. “She would make sure we were served proper food in Russia.”

  Gwen had to smile. She didn’t really know what sort of food was eaten in Russia, but it was typical of Londoners to eye foreign food with suspicion. Even the influx of Turkish refugees hadn’t managed to change that too far, although the younger aristocrats were making a habit of patronising Turkish cafés as a way of showing their feelings for the Sultan, the man who’d given the Russians a black eye and a bloody nose. The fact that most of the refugees had fled the Sultan as he consolidated his rule seemed to have escaped them.

  The door opened, revealing Raechel, who scrambled into the carriage before either of them could object. Gwen opened her mouth to say something, then dropped the thought as the coachman cracked the whip and the carriage shuddered into life. Raechel sat down next to her, folding her dress over her legs, then gave Gwen and Janet a brilliant smile.

  “It was too stuffy in the carriage,” she said, by way of explanation. “Uncle only wanted to talk about money matters.”

  Gwen didn’t – quite – roll her eyes. Inheriting Master Thomas’s considerable fortune had forced her to learn a great deal about managing money, one of the many useful skills that were rarely taught to young girls. If she’d married, as she would have if she hadn’t been born a magician, her husband would be expected to handle her money even if it was in her name. It had been hard to learn, even with a dedicated tutor, but there’d been no choice. If someone else had handled the money, she would have been at that person’s mercy.

  “You are a rich young woman,” she said, quietly. She could understand why someone as flighty as Raechel would find it boring, but she was only making herself vulnerable. “You need to learn how to handle your own money or someone will take it from you.”

  Raechel eyed her, suspiciously. “Did you teach Lady Heather how to handle money?”

  “I tried,” Gwen said. The file the family had received stated that Gwen had been tutor as well as maid, chaperone and confidante as well as servant. “But she had far less in her own name than you. You will be targeted by young rakes who want your money to fund their gambling habits.”

  “And what,” Raechel demanded, “is wrong with gambling?”

  “The gambling house always wins,” Gwen said, remembering her visit to the Golden Turk. It had been an eye-opener in more ways than one. “You could get into debt very easily and then find yourself in the poorhouse.”

  “Oh, that would never happen,” Raechel said. “Auntie would never allow it.”

  Gwen sighed, inwardly. The hell of it was that Raechel was probably right. An aristocrat might be sent abroad, to India or China, to escape gambling debts or scandals at home, but it was unlikely that he would go into debtors’ prison. She’d never heard of a woman getting so deeply into debt that she had to flee the country, but one of her relatives could probably put her up in a country house, well away from her creditors. No aristocratic family would tolerate one of its womenfolk going to jail or being transported.

  “You don’t want to be in her debt,” Gwen said. If Raechel did manage to gamble away all her money, she would be utterly dependent upon Lord and Lady Standish. “And you need to be careful.”

  Raechel gave her an odd look. She had to have realised that Gwen wasn’t quite acting as the perfect servant, even if it was Lady Standish rather than Raechel herself who was employing Gwen. Despite her crash course in being a maid, Gwen knew her pose was very far from perfect, something she’d tried to blame on being Heather’s confidante as well as her servant and chaperone. But someone as smart as Raechel might notice other discrepancies ...

  It wasn’t uncommon for poorer aristocratic girls to seek placement as governesses, rather than h
ousehold servants. Their richer fellows saw them as being better companions and teachers than people from the lower classes. But Gwen’s file included no trace of aristocracy. It had been too risky, Irene had pointed out, to risk drawing their attention. The Royal Sorceress, after all, was perhaps the best-known aristocrat of her generation.

  The carriage rattled to a halt before Raechel could ask any questions. Gwen heard shouting from outside, then the coachman opened the door, allowing Raechel to lead the way down to the ground. Gwen followed her ... and stopped dead as she saw the colossal airship, hanging in the air in front of them. It was a long thin gasbag, which Gwen knew to be filled with hydrogen gas, capable of lifting a vast amount of weight into the air. Gwen’s father had made his money by investing in airships, proclaiming them the wave of the future. It was certainly easier to take an airship than a sailing ship.

  But it could be dangerous too, Gwen thought. She could fly – levitate, rather – under her own power, but even she had problems with airships. There had been a handful of crashes over the years and very few people had survived the explosions. Indeed, the Houses of Parliament regularly debated banning airships from overflying London, particularly after Jack had used one to storm the Tower of London. I wonder how Lady Standish will react to the airship ...

  Her Ladyship didn’t seem too worried as the small crowd made its way towards the gondola, the passenger compartment hanging down from the colossal gasbag. Instead, she spoke to Raechel in tones that suggested she would have been shouting, if she had been ill-bred and brought up to believe that shouting at her niece in public was acceptable behaviour. The younger woman, Gwen noted, didn’t seem too cowed at her Aunt’s words. Gwen sighed, inwardly, then watched as Romulus and a team of footmen started to pick up the bags and transfer them to the airship. She couldn’t help noticing that half of the footmen were staring at him whenever they thought he wasn’t watching. They’d probably never seen a black man before, at least not one dressed like a Butler.