The Great Game (Royal Sorceress) (6 page)

Damn you
, she thought. A very unladylike word – and one her mother would have slapped her for using, if she’d said it in public.
How could you do this to anyone
?

She walked through the rest of the building, keeping her mind tightly closed. Most of the beds had been abandoned, even the bedding, such as it was, had been left there. The women would have been permanently trapped, without even books to keep them distracted. She’d hated her life, hated the restrictions that being born female put on her, yet she’d been far luckier than the girls in the farm. They would have given their souls to trade places with her.

Master Thomas had taught her to pay attention to small details. Something caught her eye as she glanced into the final room, drawing her towards the wall. Someone had chipped into the stone, bit by bit, a pair of names and a message. ALI AND PRU, 1827. GOD SAVE OUR SOULS. Gwen felt a lump in her throat as she stared down at the sole memento of two girls who had shared the room, both probably long dead by now, only remembered in the files. If they could write, no matter how badly, they might not have been lower class at all. Where had they come from?

You can’t stay here
, she told herself, angrily. The building was deserted. All that were left were the ghostly images burned into the surroundings, just waiting for a Sensitive to pick up.

Carefully, feeling oddly unsteady, she walked back down to the lobby and closed her eyes, drawing on her magic. It swirled inside her, ready to be used, just like it had that day when she’d discovered that she was a magician. Even without knowing the basics, she’d managed to learn quite a bit on her own. Her ability to combine the different talents was remarkable, according to Master Thomas. But then, she had never truly realised that there
were
different talents.

“Burn,” she whispered, opening her eyes.

The air grew warmer around her as she projected her magic outwards. Wallpaper started to blacken, then catch fire; the wooden staircase began to glow with light as flames leapt up the banisters and crawled through the plaster covering the stone walls. And yet, Gwen kept pouring on the magic, until the stones themselves began to crack under the heat. A roaring holocaust started to rage through the house.

She drew on her magic again, forming a protective bubble around her body, and waited. The fire was completely out of control now, obliterating the scanty bedding and melting the metal beds into puddles of molten iron. A giant rafter crashed down from high overhead as the flames destroyed the buildings supports, followed rapidly by one of the storage chests that had held what food and drink were offered to the captive women. It was already blazing with eerie green and blue flames.

Something must have been left inside
, Gwen realised, as the staircase collapsed into a heap of flaming debris. She looked up, just in time to see cracks forming above her head as the ceiling started to follow the staircase into destruction. The flames grew brighter for a long second, then the ceiling caved in. Pieces of flaming debris bounced off Gwen’s protective bubble and crashed to the ground.

She heard – or felt – a dull creak echoing through the house as one of the walls started to collapse. Moments later, large parts of the roof collapsed inwards, smashing through the remaining parts of the upper floor. Gwen saw, for one brief moment, a body, just before it vanished within the flames. She’d given orders that all of the bodies were to be destroyed – it was standard procedure to cremate the dead, now that necromancers could bring new life to rotting corpses – but one had clearly been missed. Or maybe it had just been very well hidden.

There was a final crash as the rest of the roof fell in on her, landing on top of the protective bubble. Gwen kept her thoughts under tight control – panicking now would be disastrous – and altered the shape of her bubble. The rubble was pushed aside, allowing her to levitate herself up and out of the destroyed building. To the sorcerers outside, she had to look like an angel rising out of the flames.

A Blazer could have destroyed the building, particularly if he was smart enough to realise that direct beams of magic would be less effective than making fire. A Mover could have protected himself and then escaped the holocaust. But Masters could use both powers – and so much more, besides. Whatever Colonel Sebastian might say, there was a very good reason why the Royal Sorcerer had to be a Master Magician.

The grass was smouldering, she realised as she dropped to the ground in front of the senior magicians, but the flames were unlikely to spread. Instead, without her magic or much left to burn, the flames were already dying down, leaving nothing more than a pile of charred rubble. All of the evidence of the farm’s existence had been destroyed.

“The fire brigade will be on their way,” Sir James said. There was a round of nervous chuckles from some of the magicians, although others were watching Gwen coldly, perhaps regretting the end of an era. “What do you want to tell them?”

Gwen shrugged. Both the fire brigade and the Bow Street Runners had been given specific instructions to ignore the farms, leaving the guards stationed there to handle any problems. She honestly had no idea if that had changed, but it hardly mattered. Right now, a word from Sir James would suffice to distract interested policemen – and the fire was already dying out.

“You can tell them that we corrected a mistake,” Gwen said, finally. It was true enough; besides, the Royal Sorcerers Corps took the lead in anything involving magic. “And you can leave it at that.”

She put a little Charm into her voice, just enough to ensure that they would all hear her. “I want you all to understand that things have changed,” she said, as calmly as she could. “We no longer need the farms and
I will not
tolerate their existence. Nor will the Government.”

Lord Brockton looked as though he were about to argue, but thought better of it.

“The other farms will be destroyed in turn,” Gwen continued. Perhaps she wouldn’t do it herself. There were some young Blazers who were doing well in their schooling and deserved a reward. Wanton destruction would probably suit them just fine. “Once they are gone, that part of our history will be buried.”

She smiled at them, somehow. Master Thomas had kept himself going for hours, but she felt tired and worn now that she no longer needed to maintain the bubble. But she didn’t dare show weakness in front of them, not when too many of them already saw her as a weak and frail female.

“We will go back to Cavendish Hall, where you can all join me for lunch,” she concluded. She would have preferred to eat alone, but protocol was protocol. Besides, some of them would be better off under her eye for a while. “And then we will hold the next meeting of the Royal Committee.”

She watched them go, then turned back to stare at the blackened ruins. A final wisp of smoke rose up from the debris, then faded away into nothingness. She was tempted to try to open her mind again, to see if all the impressions had been burned away, but she didn’t quite dare. Doctor Norwell, when he’d been her tutor, had once speculated that
all
humans were Sensitive, some were just more sensitive than others. Maybe all the stories about ghosts were really nothing more than undiscovered Sensitives walking into an area that had been magically tainted by bad events.

“I don’t think they were convinced,” Lucy said.

Gwen nodded, without turning round. Lucy had been Jack’s mistress and Gwen honestly wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She’d
kissed
Jack... what would have happened if he’d survived the Swing? But then, Lucy had told her that Jack had been partly intent on his own self-destruction, if it meant the destruction of the society that had shaped him. Gwen, remembering his behaviour, could hardly disagree.

“I know,” she said, quietly.

They respected her power, but they didn’t take her seriously. How could they?

Someone – she couldn’t remember who – had once told her that legitimacy consisted of being there long enough so that no one could remember anyone else. Maybe she’d just have to be patient. Sooner or later, most of Master Thomas’s appointees would be gone.

But it seemed a very long time to have to wait.

Chapter Five

G
wen allowed herself a smile as she stepped into the Royal Committee’s chamber. The designers had placed it right at the top of Cavendish Hall, allowing light to shine through the skylight and illuminate a long wooden table, where the members of the committee sat. A smaller table held two bottles of wine and several glasses, while a bookshelf held copies of the Corps’ accounts. The walls held several portraits; a regal portrait of King George IV, a joint image of the first three Master Magicians and a large painting of Queen Elizabeth, a droll reminder that a woman had once done an extremely good job of ruling the entire country. At the far end of the room, the original
Battle of Philadelphia
hung on one wall, showing the surrender of George Washington and his army of rebels to the British Redcoats.

The members of the committee rose to their feet as she entered the chamber. Gwen nodded politely to them, took her seat at the end of the table and motioned for them to sit down. She couldn’t help noticing that several of them had taken wine from the table, but others had chosen to try to keep a clear head. That was good, she supposed. Magic and alcohol didn’t mix very well. Besides, if she had taken a glass for herself, people would have
commented
.

“The meeting is now in session,” she said, primly. They didn’t like having a chairwoman, any more than Gwen liked attending the meetings in the first place. If Master Thomas had told her that the post included so many worthless discussions, she would have had second thoughts about accepting his offer. “God save the King.”

“God save the King,” they echoed back.

Gwen nodded. It was customary to start the meeting like that – and it also reminded them that King George, who had taken a much stronger interest in governing his country after the Swing, was one of her supporters. Not everyone
liked
the King, or respected him, but they’d be careful not to show disrespect in public. They never knew who might be listening.

“Before we start,” she continued, “do we have any urgent business?”

Sir James cleared his throat. “Ambassador Talleyrand has requested permission to visit the Royal College,” he said, shortly. “It is my very strong advice that permission be denied.”

There was a general rumble of agreement. Talleyrand was France’s Special Envoy, the man King Louis used to handle diplomatic incidents... and one of the smartest men in the world. Gwen doubted he was smarter than Lord Mycroft, but it hardly mattered. Allowing him to see the Royal College might have unforeseen consequences in the future. Who knew what piece of intelligence he’d find that could be put together with something else to create disastrous results?

But it was Gwen’s decision... and if her refusal caused a diplomatic incident, she’d be blamed.

“We could organise his tour so that he sees nothing useful,” she mused, aloud.

“It would be difficult to be certain,” Sir James said. “As you know, I have recommended that we move out of the city entirely...”

Gwen scowled as the old argument washed over her. After the Swing, when Cavendish Hall had been attacked and captured by the rebels, several of the younger magicians had advocated moving out of London. Cavendish Hall could serve as their headquarters, the Royal College could continue its research... but most of the magicians would train and live out of the city, where they would be less vulnerable to enemy attack. And, for that matter, less tempted by the pubs and fleshpots of London.

“But that would seem like a defeat,” Lord Brockton insisted. He’d said the same thing at a dozen earlier meetings. “We cannot run from our own capital city.”

Sir James scowled at him. “It isn’t a retreat,” he insisted, icily. “If we did our training outside the city, if nothing else, we would...”

“... Not be able to call on a reserve of magicians, if necessary,” Amherst said. “Besides, many of our trainees have other... requirements. We should not take them from London.”

Gwen tapped the table, exasperated. Had the senior magicians given Master Thomas so much trouble? “That is a debate for another time,” she said. Personally, she was inclined to agree with Sir James; moving the training facilities out into the countryside would give them much more room to operate, as well as keeping the young magicians away from London’s temptations. “For now, we shall deal with the French Ambassador.”

She was tempted to insist that Talleyrand be allowed to visit, knowing that it would annoy them, but it would be pointless spite. And Sir James did have a point.

“We shall politely deny his request,” she continued. “However, he may attempt to pressure our superiors into allowing him to visit. In that case, we shall conceal as much as possible before he arrives.”

She didn’t need to be Sensitive to sense their irritation. She’d compromised – just like a woman. Master Thomas would have said no and made it stick, but Master Thomas had had influence and knowledge no one else could match. Even if Gwen had been born a man, she couldn’t have wielded so much influence. And they would probably still have resented her.

“The first issue on the agenda, then, is recruitment,” she said, changing the subject. “Mr. Norton?”

Geoffrey Norton looked up from where he sat at the far end of the table. Like Doctor Norwell, he had no magic of his own and hence no vote on the committee – but he did have influence. Master Thomas had put him in charge of recruitment and personnel; the files stated that Gwen’s old mentor had believed that a magician would be likely to favour his own branch of magic over the others. Six months of wrestling with the senior magicians had convinced Gwen that he’d been right.

“The next intake of magicians are scheduled to enter the Royal College in two weeks,” he said, calmly. “That’s ninety-two magicians, mainly Blazers and Movers...”

Lord Brockton interrupted. “How many of them are from the lower classes?”