Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “That’s why you go to bed at a civilised hour,” Gwen countered. She strode over to the wardrobe, pulled out a basic dress and hovered it over to Raechel. “You can wear this, for the moment, and we will get you something else to wear after you’ve spoken to your Uncle.”

  Raechel sighed, then pulled the dress over her head and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked pretty, Gwen decided, although it was clear that Raechel didn’t agree. The wild untamed look was hardly fashionable these days; Raechel was just lucky enough to look beautiful without spending any effort on her appearance at all. But as she grew older and her looks began to fade, she’d need something else to keep her going. Would she ever find someone she could marry as an equal?

  “Fine,” Raechel groused, after Gwen had cleared her throat twice. She stood, running her hands down the dress to try to force it to show her curves. Thankfully, it refused to cling to her body. “I should just walk in naked. Give some of those old fogies heart attacks.”

  “They say Tyburn is nice this time of year,” Gwen said, dryly. Criminals were still hanged in Tyburn, sometimes without a trial first. Even Oliver Cromwell’s body had been exhumed and hung after the Restoration, even though it seemed a pointless exercise in spite. She couldn’t recall if any women had been hanged there, but it was quite possible. “And I don’t think your Uncle would be amused.”

  “You’d better come with me,” Raechel said. She headed towards the hatch, running her hands through her hair to push it into some semblance of order. “I can hide behind you if he’s really angry at me.”

  Gwen raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The weather over St Petersburg was surprisingly clear, according to the Captain, as the airship slowly made its way over the Baltic Sea and started its descent towards the Russian capital. Gwen was relieved, as were most of the passengers; the airship had shaken so violently when they’d passed near a storm that one of the passengers had actually tried to open the door that would have sent him plummeting towards the ground from miles up in the sky and thus ensured his death.

  She glanced at Raechel, then back out the window as St Petersburg came into view. Lord Standish had dismissed Gwen as soon as breakfast had finished, then taken his niece into a private cabin for a long chat. Whatever Lord Standish had said to her had been surprisingly effective, Gwen considered; Raechel had been oddly subdued all day. She hadn’t even pestered Gwen for more stories about her life as the Royal Sorceress.

  “It looks just like London,” Raechel said, finally. She sounded oddly disappointed. “I was expecting something more.”

  Gwen shrugged. “Wait till you see it from the ground,” she said. “You might see far more differences up close.”

  She watched as the airship descended slowly towards a vast airstrip outside the city. The Russians hadn’t been enthusiastic about airships when they’d been invented, forcing them to catch up with both the British and French, but it was clear that they were pushing the limits as fast as possible. There were two giant airships, one larger than the largest airship in British service, and a handful of smaller airships that seemed to be more engine than gasbag. Gwen had been told that it might be possible to actually build a flying machine that didn’t rely on hydrogen to provide lift, but she had her doubts. Unless magic was involved, somewhere ...

  “That’s a lot of guns,” Raechel observed. “Are they planning a war?”

  Gwen followed her gaze. The riverside was lined with guns, some built in solid emplacements, others positioned out in the open, as if they expected to be attacked at any second. Perhaps they did expect an attack, she thought. The Royal Navy liked the idea of sinking its enemy’s fleet in the first battle, even if it meant charging right into the teeth of enemy fire. As far as Gwen knew, Lord Nelson had no plans to start the war by attacking Russia, but it was quite possible ... at least as long as the river was navigable. Large chunks of ice drifting out to sea suggested that forcing passage up towards the city would be hazardous as hell.

  “It looks that way,” she said. The river passed behind them as the airship sank lower, slowly making its way towards the docking mast ahead of them. There was a long whining sound from the engines, then the airship shook violently again as the ground rose up towards her eyes. “I think they fear the worst.”

  A dull thump ran through the airship, followed by a series of clunks as the ground crew attached anchors to her gondola. Gwen straightened up as she saw a line of armed soldiers running past the window, clearly readying themselves to attend upon Lord Standish and his diplomatic mission. Raechel gave her a sharp look, then followed Gwen as she walked back to Raechel’s cabin and checked to make sure that everything was packed. The bags would be picked up by the Russians and transported to the embassy, no doubt after being thoroughly searched. She hadn’t mentioned that to Raechel. It would only have upset her.

  “Raechel,” Lady Standish said. She looked much better now that the airship had touched down, a suspiciously quick recovery. “You will accompany us as we leave the airship.”

  “Of course, Auntie,” Raechel said, lightly. “Your strongest command is my slightest wish.”

  “And Gwen will make sure you keep your mouth firmly shut,” Lady Standish added, switching her glare to Gwen. “Do not even think of letting her cause a diplomatic incident.”

  She turned and marched down the corridor, leaving Gwen and Raechel alone. “My Uncle was much firmer about it,” Raechel muttered, as soon as her Aunt was out of earshot. “He told me that if I caused any trouble, he’d sign the papers marrying me to Lord Percy.”

  Gwen rolled her eyes. Lord Percy was an imbecile, to put it kindly; a man so stupid that it surprised her that he could tie his own shoelaces. Gwen’s mother had threatened to marry her off to Lord Percy before; she hadn’t realised that it was such a prevalent threat among the aristocracy. But Raechel would run rings round him, she knew. He was too kind-hearted to do anything to restrain his wife, should he ever marry.

  Which is unlikely, Gwen thought. Who would want their daughter to marry an imbecile?

  “Don’t worry about it,” she muttered. “Worry instead about what I’ll do to you if you mess this up.”

  She led the way towards the doors, where the passengers and crew were gathering. The Captain was talking to Lord Standish, carefully not looking at either Gwen or Raechel. Gwen felt Raechel tense beside her, but muttered a command for her to simply ignore the Captain’s presence. Lord Standish and his wife marched forward as the doors opened, letting in a wave of cold air that made Gwen shiver and silently use magic to warm herself. The others, having only clothing for protection, looked thoroughly unhappy as they marched out into the bright sunlight.

  “Stay close to me,” Gwen ordered, warming the air around Raechel too. It should be undetectable, but if someone realised the air was warmer near them there might be some awkward questions. “And don’t say a word.”

  Raechel shot her a grateful look, then watched as a uniformed Russian man, wearing so many medals on his chest it was a surprise he didn’t fall over, started greeting Lord Standish in badly-accented English. Gwen listened carefully at first, realised that it was nothing more than the usual meaningless formalities and then looked away, trying to drink in as much as she could of Russia. The air was cold, but smelt faintly of industrial smoke and by-products, just like the smog of London and Manchester. She looked down and saw ice and slush on the ground, just waiting for someone to put their feet down carelessly. She had to be careful, she reminded herself, to make sure she wasn’t accidentally melting the ice around them.

  The Russian finished his speech, then paused, dramatically. Gwen switched her attention back to him as he spoke louder, as if he wanted to get the words out as quickly as possible. It was hard to be sure – she had never been a strong Sensitive, unlike Sir Travis – but she thought he honestly wasn’t pleased about what he had to say. She narrowed her eyes as he spoke, trying to listen carefully.

/>   “As a testament to the urgency of your mission, His Excellency the Tsar has invited you to stay in the Winter Palace,” the Russian said. “Rooms have already been prepared for you.”

  Gwen frowned – and knew she wasn’t the only one. It was rare, vanishingly rare, for a diplomatic mission to be hosted in the very heart of another country’s government. There would be no room for withdrawals, no break for tempers to cool, if they were living right next to the Tsar himself. And yet, it suggested a sense of urgency she couldn’t help finding encouraging. The Tsar was taking the whole matter extremely seriously.

  And I would be close to the government myself, she thought. Searching the palace would be much easier if I was already inside the walls.

  She watched as Lord Standish and Sir Sidney spoke briefly in a language she vaguely recognised as coming from India. It made sense, she knew; they’d both use something different to try to conceal their words, if they needed to speak without being overheard by their hosts. But the Russians could probably find a speaker of their own, if necessary ...

  “We thank you for your offer,” Lord Standish said. “We gratefully accept.”

  The Russian bowed, then led the way towards a line of gaudy carriages waiting for the diplomatic team. Gwen wondered if the Russians thought they were hosting visiting royalty; they’d brought out gilded carriages, fine black horses and the escorting soldiers were wearing fancy uniforms. She heard Raechel gasp as one of the men came into view and elbowed her, not gently. The man was handsome, but he was also very cold. His gaze flickered over Raechel and then Gwen, his eyes meeting hers for a split second. She shivered, despite herself, knowing that she was looking at a killer.

  “Don’t go anywhere with that man,” she muttered, as Lord and Lady Standish were assisted into the first carriage. “I mean it.”

  Raechel scowled at her, but said nothing. Moments later, they were helped into the third carriage, the doors firmly closed before anyone else could join them. Gwen pulled the curtains aside, allowing her to see out of the vehicle, as the horsemen cracked whips and the carriages jolted into motion. Resting her hands in her lap, she watched grimly as they drove away from the airstrip and into St Petersburg itself. The city reminded her far too much of the Rookery, before the Swing.

  “It’s different,” Raechel said. “I mean ... it looks different from London.”

  Gwen nodded. She knew little about architecture, but she had to admit that St Petersburg was definitely different. Many of the older buildings seemed topped with giant onions, some gleaming gold and silver in the sunlight, while even the newer buildings were very strange compared to what she knew. She thought she detected some French and Scottish influences in some of the newer buildings, but it was hard to be sure. One giant cathedral was so remarkable that it took her breath away when she looked at it.

  But the fancy buildings were surrounded by poverty. Dark brooding buildings seemed to be crammed with families, with poor children in tattered clothes playing outside. There were few women on the streets, she noticed; hundreds of young men seemed to hang around, doing nothing apart from talking or listlessly tossing balls around in the gutter. Homeless people could be seen, sleeping against walls or in alleys; somehow, she doubted many of them would survive the coming winter. She was sure a handful of them were already dead.

  “My God,” Raechel breathed. “This is awful.”

  “Yes,” Gwen agreed, tonelessly.

  She gritted her teeth as she saw the soldiers patrolling the streets. There were no splendid uniforms, just rifles and swords. It was clear to her that the soldiers didn’t dare patrol except in large numbers, for fear of being ambushed and picked off by the poor. She couldn’t help remembering the early hours of the Swing, when British Redcoats had been surrounded and hacked to death by outraged crowds. St Petersburg had the same simmering tension that Jack had exploited to plan his uprising, but there was something darker and even less pleasant in the background here. It struck her, suddenly, that the crowds had no designated leader. If they ever found someone capable of uniting them, all hell would break loose.

  The Tsar fears an uprising, she thought, remembering the files. They have had poor harvests, which means less food, which means people will have far less to lose if they rise up against their masters.

  Raechel stared at her. “This wouldn’t happen in England!”

  “It has,” Gwen said. Had it really been only a few short months since Jack had shown her the dark reality underpinning the aristocracy of England? The poor, struggling to live from day to day, while the wealthy crushed them under their boots without even noticing? “I’ve seen far worse, Raechel.”

  “Impossible,” Raechel insisted. “We wouldn’t let it happen in London.”

  Gwen snickered, rudely. “I’ve seen women selling their bodies for crumbs,” she said, bitterly. “I’ve seen men thrown out on the streets after accidents at work ensured they could no longer perform. I’ve seen children forced to steal to live, or pushed into brothels that cater for men with truly deprived tastes. I’ve seen maids, like the one I’m meant to be, beaten half to death by their masters because they made a mistake ... or because their master was merely in a very bad mood. I’ve seen horrors you can’t even begin to imagine.”

  Raechel stared at her. “But something has to be done,” she said. “Maybe I could ...”

  Gwen sighed. “Weeks ago, there was a charity – a religious charity – that tried to employ former prostitutes,” she said. “It failed. Do you know why?”

  Raechel shook her head.

  “Two reasons,” Gwen said. “First, they didn’t pay the women as much as prostitution paid; the women needed the money, so they went back to selling themselves. And second ...”

  She paused, wondering if Raechel would see the connection. But Raechel said nothing.

  “Second, they preached to the sinners,” Gwen explained. “The women didn’t want to sell themselves, not really. They just had no choice if they wanted to survive. And the priests were going among them and telling them that they were sinners ... the priests, wearing comfortable clothes, and well-fed by donations from their parishes. The women hated them for their endless and relentless nagging.”

  “Just like my Aunt,” Raechel said.

  “Yes,” Gwen said, rolling her eyes. “Your Aunt might have been involved with one or more of those well-meaning attempts to tell people how to run their lives.”

  She shook her head as the coach turned, rattling loudly. “The poor have lives of their own,” she said, remembering Olivia. “They are not animals and they are not clay, to be moulded as you see fit. You must never forget that if you actually want to make a difference.”

  Raechel nodded, then stared out of the window as the Winter Palace came into view. Gwen was reluctantly impressed by the sheer size of the building; it was far larger than any building she’d visited in London, even Buckingham Palace. But it was surrounded by a thick wall and defended by armed guards; a fortress in the very heart of Russian power. Judging by the way the other buildings had been erected around it, someone expected and feared an uprising that might overthrow the Tsar. The soldiers looked grimly confident of holding the line long enough for assistance to reach them, if all hell broke loose. Gwen couldn’t help fearing that they were wrong.

  “It feels as if we’re walking into a trap,” she said, out loud. “I really don’t like that sort of feeling.”

  Up close, the Winter Palace sat in the centre of a lawn, which was covered in snow and ice. The building practically glowed with light, each window lit up like the sun, a mocking display of power and wealth in the middle of a city of the poor and powerless. Somehow, Gwen couldn’t help thinking that the Tsar was trying to display his power, either to suggest that a revolution was pointless, or in order to provoke one so that he could crush it. Lord Blackburn had argued for just that, in the days before the Swing.

  “I have the same feeling,” Raechel muttered back. The carriages passed through a looming a
rch, armed soldiers peering at them dispassionately, then drove up to the palace itself. “This place isn’t safe at all.”

  The carriage rattled to a halt in front of a pair of large doors, which were pushed open by a team of footmen. Light spilled out, illuminating the carriages as the passengers were helped out onto the snowy ground, Lady Standish slipping and sliding as she was helped towards the doors. Inside, it was blissfully warm and bright, illuminated by countless gaslights that sparkled off the walls. Gwen sucked in her breath at the sheer finery on display as the doors closed behind them. The walls were covered with portraits of famous Russians, each one edged with gold; tables were covered with pieces of artwork she knew had to be worth thousands of pounds apiece. And the Russians were just showing off their wealth ...

  There had been British aristocrats who’d done just that, in the days before the Swing. Their homes had been the first to be looted. Gwen knew that some artefacts, including family heirlooms, had never actually been recovered, even after large rewards had been pledged for their return. She couldn’t help thinking that the Winter Palace would end its days in the same manner ...

  “Welcome,” an unaccented voice said. Gwen turned to see a very fat man, flanked by a small army of maids. “We have prepared a large suite for you, our guests. His Excellency invites you to a dance this evening, where you will be formally presented to him and his Court, so we have prepared clothes as well.”

  “Thank you,” Lord Standish said.

  Beside him, Sir Sidney looked irked. Gwen wanted to consult with him, to ask for advice, but she knew she didn’t dare say a word in the Winter Palace. Walls might very well have ears. Instead, she allowed the maids to lead Raechel and her up to their rooms, after Raechel explained to Lady Standish that she needed Gwen with her to help her to freshen up. Lady Standish, clearly keen to ensure that her niece was under constant supervision, readily agreed to allow Gwen to sleep in the same room.