The Great Game (Royal Sorceress) (3 page)

Because if she
couldn’t
stop well-connected men murdering members of the lower orders, what had Jack died for anyway?

Chapter Two

D
uring the Swing, Whitehall and the Houses of Parliament had been extensively damaged by the rebels. After the fighting had come to an end, the government had started a long-term project to rebuild the heart of the British Establishment, allowing the government departments to be extensively reorganised – and, Gwen had been told, to be purged of a great many officials who had outstayed their welcome. Lord Mycroft, who had lost his flat in Pall Mall when the rebels had firebombed it, had moved into Whitehall and taken effective control of the government. These days, he rarely left his offices.

Gwen smiled to herself as the policemen on duty waved her through the gates. At first, they’d been suspicious of a young girl visiting Whitehall, certainly one without any male escort. Now, they just let her through without asking any questions, apart from a handful of requests to show off her magic. Gwen had been puzzled at first, until Inspector Jude had reminded her that the Royal Sorcerer was supposed to provide magical support if the Bow Street Runners ran into trouble. A display of competence on her part was always welcome.

Lord Mycroft’s office occupied the entire second floor of the Home Office. Somehow, it still managed to seem crammed with files, books and boxes, allowing Lord Mycroft instant access to any or all of the government’s archives. Gwen had never seen him actually having to
look
at the files; like Doctor Norwell, Lord Mycroft possessed a perfect memory and an undeniable gift for seeing connections in the information that would be missed by almost anyone else. He was easily the most intelligent man that Gwen had ever encountered. The thought of what would happen to the government when he died or retired was chilling.

“Lady Gwen,” Lord Mycroft said. He was seated on the far side of a massive desk, splitting his attention between a government report and a chessboard where a puzzle had been laid out for his attention. “I trust that matters went well?”

Gwen nodded as she sat down. “The so-called Worshipful Order of Ancient Wisdom is in custody,” she said, as she passed him the arrest list. “How could anyone be so stupid as to believe such nonsense? Summoning a demon
indeed
!”

Lord Mycroft snorted. “We have been allowing people to believe all kinds of nonsense about magic, ever since Professor Cavendish first codified it,” he reminded her. “For all they know, maybe you
do
get your powers from the devil.”

“Too many people believe that,” Gwen muttered. She’d been ignorant about the true nature of magic before Master Thomas had taken her as his apprentice. Maybe an outsider, with nothing more than rumours to go on, would believe that magic came from the devil – or, for that matter, that someone could be turned into a frog just by a magician snapping their fingers.

“But not, alas, enough of them,” Lord Mycroft added. “We do know that the French have definitely started to build their own force of trained magicians. A present from Master Jackson, I do believe.”

Gwen rubbed her forehead. The French had originally believed that magic was of demonic origin, if only because magic had allowed the British to beat them soundly in 1800 – and, lacking the insight provided by Professor Cavendish, they had been unable to codify magic for themselves. But then they’d allowed Jack to reside in France and he’d taught them how to find and train new magicians. Gwen had no doubt that, whatever the Pope had to say about it, the French would have no hesitation about using their own Sorcerers Corps. After all, Master Thomas hadn’t hesitated to fly in the face of convention and recruit
her
when he’d needed an apprentice.

Magic had given the British Empire a major advantage in 1800. Talkers had allowed the coordination of military forces all over the world, while it had taken the French weeks or months to get orders and reports to various far-flung outlets. Blazers had ignited wooden sailing ships before they could fire a single shot towards the Royal Navy. Even Sensitives – the weakest form of magic - had offered the British an unfair advantage. No wonder the French had called magic demonic – and no wonder that they’d accepted Jack’s offer with alacrity. They needed to master magic for themselves.

“So have the Turks,” Mycroft added. “And
they
have help too.”

Gwen gritted her teeth. The last report had placed Lord Blackburn in Cairo, working with the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. Lord Blackburn might have been nothing more than a Charmer – which didn’t stop him being very dangerous – but he knew enough to put the Turkish research program into magic onto a very sound footing. Gwen had disliked him intensely even before she’d realised just how deeply entangled he’d been with the farms and other programs intended to keep magic firmly in upper class hands.

Maybe I should be glad he fled before the end of the Swing
, she told herself, firmly.
He would have been pardoned at the end, like everyone else
.

It was strange to consider such matters. A year ago, she’d wanted – desperately – to explore her own powers and do something
useful
. Now, she was the foremost magician in the land, the leader of the Royal Sorcerers Corps and Chairman –
Chairwoman
, she supposed – of the Royal College. Powerful men hung on her every word, just as she’d imagined when she’d been a child, experimenting with the magic that had both blessed and blighted her life. But she’d never realised just how far her responsibilities would stretch until it was too late to change her mind.

Or, for that matter, how many people would refuse to take her seriously.

“And so have the Russians, we assume,” she said, tartly. “Or have you heard anything different from them?”

“Nothing,” Lord Mycroft said. “But the Russians have always been good at keeping secrets. They could have a small army of magicians by now and we wouldn’t know about it, at least until we saw them in combat... perhaps in Central Asia.”

Gwen nodded, visualising the map in her mind. Britain ruled all of India and was pushing northwards through Afghanistan; Russia was pressing southwards, building a colossal network of roads that would allow the Cossacks to ride to their destinations far quicker than ever before. Sooner or later, the two empires would meet and clash. By then, the Russians would need magicians of their own if they wanted to prevail.

“Or Europe,” she said, after a moment. “They might end up breaking the treaty with France...”

“Unlikely,” Lord Mycroft said, with authority. “The recent royal marriage between Paris and St. Petersburg will give them some incentive to avoid outright war, even if they are disagreeing over the precise division of the German states. I have it on good authority that diplomats on both sides are strongly suggesting that they leave the Germans independent as buffer states, particularly as few believe that the Germans could ever become a major threat to both empires. Besides, if they do go to war, the only winners would be right here in London.”

“Because whoever won would take a generation to recover,” Gwen said, to show that she had been paying attention. The six months since she’d become Royal Sorceress had required a great deal of cramming. “Better to expand into Africa and Central Asia.”

“Much better,” Lord Mycroft confirmed. “On the other hand, we don’t want either power establishing a firm foothold in Turkey – or Persia. And Parliament will give us a hard time if anything happens to block the slave trade from exploiting North Africa.”

Gwen fought the impulse to scowl. There were parts of the British Empire, notably the islands in the Caribbean and the American South, that depended upon slavery – and the slave trade, where Negroes were enslaved in Africa and sold to the highest bidder. She had never truly grasped the realities of slavery until after she’d become Royal Sorceress, despite the horror she’d seen in London before the Swing. Countless men and women, taken from their homes by rival tribesmen, shackled in cramped holds where many of them would suffocate before they reached their new homes. And if one of them hadn’t developed magic and accidentally set fire to a boat in London, Gwen would never have known that the slaves had even been there.

Slavery was an abomination, as horrifying in its way as the conditions of the poor that had helped fuel the Swing. But the slaveholders had considerable political power and even the most enthusiastic reformers had been unable to ban the slave trade, let alone stamp out slavery within the Empire. One day, Gwen suspected, the slaves would revolt...

“Politics,” Lord Mycroft reminded her. He seemed to be good at following her thoughts, even though he was no Talker. “We do what we can, when we can. And we keep the interests of the Empire firmly in mind.”

He tapped the chessboard. “It isn’t the single pieces” – his fingers brushed lightly over the white queen – “that are important, so much as how they fit together,” he added. “Our priority is to keep the Empire intact. And the way politics has been shaken up recently...”

“The Swing,” Gwen said. “You told the King that the Reform Act would be better for the Empire in the long term.”

“I did,” Lord Mycroft confirmed. “And it will be. But that doesn’t stop us from having teething problems as the Reformers try to change everything at once and the Conservatives try to keep the Empire in a state of stasis. Neither side can be allowed full rein, but maintaining the balance is not easy.”

It took Gwen a moment to follow his logic. If a reforming Parliament moved against slavery – and only a few individuals within the Reform Party had truly taken an antislavery stance – the slaveholders would unite with the Conservatives. Given a few decades, perhaps something could be done, but until then...

“I suppose it doesn’t matter to the pawns,” she said, with more bitterness than she had intended. “Most of them don’t get to be queens.”

“Certainly not in less than six moves,” Lord Mycroft said. He quirked an eyebrow at her as he swung the chessboard around until the white pieces were in front of Gwen. “The long-term is what matters. Master Thomas was Royal Sorcerer for sixty years. You might hold the post as long...”

Gwen privately doubted it. Master Thomas had remained remarkably spry for a ancient man, to the point where Doctor Norwell had wondered if he’d been subconsciously Healing himself all along, but he’d been... well, a
man
. And he’d had no replacement in sight, until he’d turned, out of desperation, to Gwen.
She
had a private suspicion that if another Master Magician – a
male
Master Magician – happened to show up, she would be pushed into resigning by the Royal Committee.
None
of them, even the more forward-thinking, were comfortable taking orders from a young girl.

“... And, in any case, the Empire will be here long after we are both dead,” Lord Mycroft continued, seemingly unaware of her thoughts. “We must ensure that we do not sacrifice long-term security for short-term gratification.”

He tapped the board, meaningfully. “Would you like to play?”

Gwen had to smile. Chess was not considered a ladylike game; certainly, none of the truly great players in London were female. But then,
magic
wasn’t very feminine either. And her brother had taught her how to play, years ago.

“Too tired,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. David had been good, but Lord Mycroft was an absolutely brilliant player. He would be. Even refreshed, Gwen doubted that she could manage anything more than a brave showing before he swept her pieces off the board. “And I have to be up early tomorrow.”

“Indeed,” Lord Mycroft said. He looked up, his sharp eyes suddenly meeting hers. “And do you
want
to go to the ceremony tomorrow?”

Gwen refused to look away, even through his gaze was piercing. “I believe that I have no choice,” she said, icily. She didn’t
want
to go at all. “We are going to be telling the entire world a lie.”

“We all have to do things we hate,” Lord Mycroft reminded her, coldly. “Telling a lie, as you put it, is far preferable to the... problems we would face if the truth came out. And our political system, even
reformed
, could not survive the explosion. It would shatter the Empire and leave us vulnerable to our enemies. The truth can remain buried for centuries.”

“Lost in the files,” Gwen commented, sarcastically. One of the things she’d discovered while doing the paperwork only the Royal Sorcerer could do was that the government was very good at losing things. They were written down and then buried in the files, where they could be safely forgotten about. “And what happens when it comes out?”

“By then, one way or the other, it shouldn’t matter,” Lord Mycroft assured her. “But believe me, your...
detractors
are facing the same problem.”

Gwen snorted. Her detractors, on and off the Royal Committee, only had to put up with a seventeen-year-old girl holding the most important position in the British Empire. She had to tell a lie... and then do whatever it took to
maintain
that lie, knowing that the consequences of the truth coming out would be worse. And if her detractors, the ones who didn’t know who’d issued the original orders, ever found out that she’d lied, they would claim that it was yet another reason why a girl could never hold a position of responsibility. How could they trust a known liar? The fact that male politicians lied all the time wouldn’t bother them in the slightest.

“And many of them are trying to cope with the Trouser Brigade,” he added. His lips formed, very briefly, a smile. “They
hate
that too.”

“And blame me for it,” Gwen said. “And for once they’re even right.”

There was no way she could fight in the long dresses that had been fashionable for Young Women of a Certain Age and Martial Status, even if the Royal Committee had been prepared to listen to people in skirts. Instead, she’d had a dressmaker prepare an outfit for her that was almost identical to Master Thomas’s suit, complete with trousers and top hat. The only real change had been some tailoring to fit the female form...