Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3) (6 page)

A set of wagons was suddenly in front of them, accidentally blocking the road. Olivia saw her chance and pulled hard on the reins, bringing the horse to a sudden stop. Moments later, she jumped off the beast’s back, landed as well as could be expected and started to run, silently thanking the god she didn’t really believe in that the Russians had made her wear trousers. Running in a dress was damn near impossible, at least for her. She had a suspicion that the Grand Mistresses of Fashion preferred to make it harder for young women to run away from them.

She heard shouts behind her as she plunged into an alleyway, silently praying that the street was too narrow for the horses. Like any London alleyway, it was jammed with homeless people trying to get what comfort they could by huddling together. She jumped over a pair of women who looked to be around fifty years of age, but were probably a great deal younger – people aged quickly on the streets – and then turned down another alleyway. Behind her, the shouts were growing louder. She darted onwards, turning into yet another alleyway, then out onto a main street. A handful of stallholders eyed her darkly for a long moment, then looked away as she ran past them and down the street.

And then someone caught her hand. Olivia swung around, just in time to see a young boy who couldn’t have been much older than she was. She threw a punch at him anyway, only to discover that he was just as experienced in dirty fighting as her; he sidestepped her punch, then slammed a haymaker into her jaw. Olivia tasted blood in her mouth as she stumbled, then heard the sound of hooves behind her. Moments later, a Cossack slipped off his horse, yanked her to her feet and slashed his whip across her back. She felt it even through the clothes she’d been ordered to wear.

She’d been beaten before, during her time on the streets. It was just one of the occupational hazards of living rough, at least for boys. Girls had it worse, which was at least partly why Olivia had worked hard to pose as a boy. She’d believed herself inured to being beaten. But six months of living in relative luxury and freedom – Gwen had never raised a hand to her and she’d forbidden the tutors to even think about corporal punishment – had weakened her more than she’d realised. The brief beating hurt far more than it should have done. She didn’t want to think about what it would have felt like if he’d stripped her naked before laying into her. She found herself lying on the road, grunting in pain, as the others came up to join her captor.

“That was foolish,” Ivan said. Olivia stared up at him mutely, then spat at him. “Even if you managed to get away from us, where would you go?”

He rolled her over, caught her hands and pulled them behind her back. Moments later, she felt solid metal cuffs clicking around her wrists, so tightly that she could feel the flow of blood to her hands being constricted. She wondered, briefly, why he didn’t simply Charm her back into dumb obedience, then realised that he had to be having doubts about the efficiency of his powers. If he hadn’t scared her so badly earlier, she would have remained his obedient servant. Or his slave. She wanted to cry as he clicked a second pair of handcuffs around her ankles, then hauled her to her feet. Walking almost any distance would be damn near impossible.

One of the Cossacks said something in Russian. Olivia looked over at him and realised he was holding the boy who’d caught her by the arm. Ivan said something back and the boy tried to run, too late. The Cossack drew his sword – it looked like a cutlass – and sliced through the boy’s throat in one smooth motion. Olivia felt sick as the boy’s body tumbled to the ground, and for the first time, found herself missing the Bow Street Runners. They could be brutal and utterly unsympathetic, but they didn’t kill informers out of hand. But, she realised bitterly, the Cossacks had killed him just to issue a warning to her. They would happily kill her too, if they didn’t need her.

Ivan picked her up, then threw her over the horse. Olivia gasped in pain as her bruised jaw hit the side of the animal, then realised that she was going to be carried in this absurd and undignified position. Ivan slapped her bottom, hard enough to sting, then walked around and shook his head sadly at her. He didn’t look a bit regretful, merely annoyed. Olivia wanted to spit at him again, but resisted the temptation. It was clear that they were quite prepared to beat her into submission if they considered it necessary.

She scowled at him, then winced as he patted her head and strode back to his own horse. If there was one thing the Rookery had taught her, it was the value of patience. There would be other opportunities to escape, she told herself firmly, and when she saw them she would take them. And next time she would be much more careful. Her next escape would be far better planned.

The horses neighed as their riders let out a shout, then started cantering forwards again. This time, thankfully, there were fewer people in the streets, but there were still some very close calls. Olivia finally closed her eyes, forcing herself to block out the sights around her. All she could do, she told herself bitterly, was wait. There would be a chance, she was sure ...

... Because the alternative was giving in to despair.

Chapter Five

G
wen heard the marching band long before the players – and the soldiers – came into view, parading along Pall Mall to the beat of a drum. The 5
^th
Highland Regiment was marching to take up positions in the southeast of England, preparing for a French invasion – or to invade France itself, if that seemed possible. Hundreds of children were clapping and cheering as the Highlanders marched onwards, while young women – even some clearly of aristocratic birth – were smiling and waving at the soldiers. Gwen had to smile, despite the constant fear for her daughter in her heart. Every girl seemed to love a soldier.

But then, Britain doesn’t have a large standing army
, she reminded herself. The Royal Navy – the impregnable wooden walls defending the nation – made it impossible for an enemy to actually land on British soil. Or so they hoped; she knew enough about recent developments in naval technology to fear that the Royal Navy might have some rough days ahead. But the last time Britain had had a standing army, it had proved as unpopular as they now were in France, Russia and even the German states.

She smiled as she stepped inside the café and sat down, taking a seat in the window. It was a fashionable place these days, although Gwen had no idea why. A handful of middle-aged women sat in one corner, pretending not to look at the soldiers, while several young couples were chatting at private tables. They were being chaperoned, Gwen noted, just to make sure that nothing untoward happened before their weddings. It would be a major scandal if a couple was found to have anticipated their wedding night. And it would almost always be blamed on the girl. Women were often charged with being unable to control their emotions.

Gwen snorted, remembering Sir Charles.
She
had been attracted to him, she had to admit, but she hadn’t allowed her emotions to blind her too far. It could easily have been a great deal worse, she knew, if she hadn’t realised just how carefully he was manipulating her. And then ... she would probably have lost her position, if not her life. A husband would be in an excellent position to stick a knife in her back.

She looked over at one of the young couples – the girl younger than Gwen, the boy a couple of years older – and felt a stab of envy. They were innocent, ignorant of the responsibilities of adulthood, the responsibilities that Gwen had assumed when Master Thomas had died. She wouldn’t trade her position for a return to aristocratic life, not as a young lady under her mother’s thumb, but it would be nice to be able to put the burden down for a while. And yet there were no other Master Magicians ready to take her place. As far as she knew, she was the last Master Magician to be discovered.

The door opened, revealing Lord Mycroft and another man. Gwen rose to her feet and smiled at Lord Mycroft, then nodded at the newcomer. They were very different; Lord Mycroft was immensely fat, with the sharp lines of his face weakened by overeating, while the stranger was tall and thin, with short ginger hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. Gwen eyed him sharply, remembering Sir Charles. The newcomer had the same air of infinite competence around him as her would-be seducer and betrayer had had. But she’d killed him in the end.

“Lady Gwen,” Lord Mycroft said. “Thank you for coming.”

Gwen sat down and waved to the waiter, who bustled over with a set of menus. Lord Mycroft ordered tea and cake without bothering to actually look at the list of foods; the stranger inspected it minutely, before ordering tea and scones for himself. Gwen ordered a cup of tea for herself, then settled back in her chair. It was rare for Lord Mycroft to be seen outside his office, his apartment or the Diogenes Club. For him to come to a café, no matter how fashionable, and meet her there was extraordinary. It suggested that there was some deeper purpose to the meeting.

“Lady Gwen,” Lord Mycroft said. “Allow me to introduce you to Sir Sidney Campbell, one of my special agents.”

Sir Sidney stood up and bowed, then took Gwen’s hand and kissed it lightly. “Charmed,” he said. His voice held a faint Scottish accent, suggesting that his family came from the other side of the border, but that he’d spent enough time in England to lose the brogue. “It is always a pleasure to meet a magician.”

Gwen smiled, despite herself. “You’re one of the few people who would say that,” she said, dryly. “Far too many people find magicians unwanted company.”

The waiter returned, carrying a large teapot, a jug of milk, three cups and a plate of cakes and scones. Gwen couldn’t help noticing that one of the cups was significantly smaller than the other two, suggesting that she was expected to have a feminine quantity of tea. Rolling her eyes at the casual preconceptions of a world that expected her to be dainty and ladylike, she stood and poured tea for all three of them, then settled back with the smaller cup. There was enough liquid in the teapot for her to have another, if she felt like it.

Perhaps it does make sense
, she thought reluctantly, as she saw one of the older women heading toward the toilet in the rear. The lady’s dress would be hard to take off, particularly if she were in a hurry. Gwen’s trousers were so much more practical, but, for women, propriety almost invariably prevailed over functionality and good sense.
We aren’t even expected to go to the toilet outside our homes
.

Lord Mycroft took a piece of carrot cake, then settled back in his seat. “There have been developments,” he said, without preamble. “We have managed to trace Olivia’s path out of England.”

Gwen felt as though a knife had stabbed her heart. If the kidnappers had wanted to kill the only known Necromancer, they could have killed Olivia at any moment and made their escape. And if they’d wanted to trade her for ransom, they wouldn’t have taken her too far from Cavendish Hall. But if they’d wanted to use her magic for themselves, they’d have to take her out of the country itself.

“Good,” she said, keeping her voice under tight control. “Where did she go?”

“We traced her passage to the docks,” Lord Mycroft said. It would have been his brother who had done the legwork, Gwen knew. “She was transferred to a steamer that was, officially, bound for Sweden. Unofficially, we have good reason to believe she was headed for Russia.”

Gwen muttered a very unladylike word, just loudly enough for them to hear. Lord Mycroft showed no reaction; Sir Sidney merely smiled, as if she’d amused him in some way. Gwen eyed him suspiciously, then sat up in her seat. Russia. The only consolation was that Olivia hadn’t been taken directly to France. After the French had been blamed for the necromantic outbreak in London at the height of the Swing, they’d certainly want to get their hands on a living Necromancer.

But Russia ... almost nothing was known about the Russian magical program, although everyone assumed the Russians definitely
had
a program. The French had been hampered by the Catholic Church’s resistance to any form of magic, even magic in the service of the Church; the Russians, as far as she knew, would have had no such obstacles barring their path to magical research. If the Russians wanted a Necromancer ... what did they intend to do with her? No matter who was behind the kidnap, no one would have gone to so much trouble unless they had a use in mind for a Necromancer.

“We don’t know,” Lord Mycroft confessed. Gwen scowled. As always, he could read her expressions and use them to divine her thoughts, far more subtly than the average mind-reading Talker. “But we don’t think the Russians have anything good in mind.”

Gwen couldn’t disagree. “We need to mount a rescue mission,” she said, firmly. “Whatever the cost, we have to get her back.”

Sir Sidney smiled. “Searching all of Russia for her would be tricky,” he observed. “The Russians control more territory than us, most of it harsh and desolate wasteland.”

Lord Mycroft gave him a sharp look, then nodded. “We don’t intend to just let this pass,” he said. “But finding her is going to be a challenge.”

Gwen wanted to place her head in her hands. He was right, she knew; they were both right. It would be impossible to compel the Russians to return her daughter without the threat of force and she knew the global situation well enough to understand that threatening Russia wouldn’t be very easy. Indeed, it would trigger the war that everyone expected to start at any moment.

“There are options, however,” Lord Mycroft continued. “I do not believe that they would have taken her very far from St Petersburg, their capital. The Tsar likes to keep control of his Empire firmly in his own hands. It is quite likely that their magic-research program is based there.”

He took a breath. “At the moment, it is unclear if the Russians are actually planning to join the French in war against us or not,” he said. “The Russians have been giving contradictory answers to everyone who asks, British or French. On one hand, they want to wage war on the Turks; on the other, they’re reluctant to risk another war after the last one turned into a disaster.”