The Great Game – Free Sample

(Taken from the pre-editing EARC.)

Prologue

Published in The Times, London, 1831

Dear Sir

As a retired military officer and sorcerer in the Royal Sorcerers Corps, I am writing to express my grave concern – nay, dismay – over the decision of HIS MAJESTY'S PRIME MINISTER, THE DUKE OF INDIA to appoint Lady Gwendolyn Crichton as Royal Sorceress.  The Duke's record of service to our Empire is, of course, beyond any question.  Nonetheless, I believe his decision here is not fortunate.  It is not one, I feel, that is in the best interests of the British Empire.
 
No one can deny that Lady Gwendolyn has shown the pluck and determination expected of an Englishwoman in a sticky situation.  Her heroism contributed significantly to ending the Rebellion, a rebellion whose end was in my opinion not marked by an adequate number of hangings of the traitors who launched it, before there was further loss of life. 

However, the fact remains that Lady Gwendolyn is profoundly unsuited to any position of authority.  Like any girl, she is far too delicate for this burden to be placed upon her. The sheltered upbringing of a lady of her station does not cover the areas that any sorcerer would need to know.  For example, it will occasionally be needful for the sorcerer to command a party including other ranks.  The exigencies of battle occasionally require the officer leading the engagement to motivate other ranks with stiff words, words with which a lady of her station would assuredly be unaware, let alone be prepared to use.
 
Furthermore, although there are no detailed reports, there are disturbing rumours from her childhood that suggest unpleasant thoughts about her conduct.  I shall say no more about those!
 
Even if she was physically and mentally capable of holding her own in thaumaturgic combat, she is only sixteen years old [ED – Lady Gwendolyn is seventeen as of writing.]  There is no way that she can command the respect and admiration that Master Thomas commanded from the sorcerers who served under him.  If there is a conflict of wills within the corps, a woman, nay a girl of sixteen, can hardly be expected to stand firmly behind her position and compel men three or even four times her age to carry out the decisions that she will of necessity have been supplied soto voce.
 
It runs against the grain for any man to take orders from a woman, let alone a girl whose past experience with life will have been playing with dolls, learning the arts of the feminine home economy, and casting the most demure downcast glances toward future suitors.  The sorcerers of the RSC will have no doubt that Lady Gwendolyn is far less knowledgeable – let alone experienced or competent – than themselves.  That is the nature of the world, that men lead, and women do as they are told while being grateful that they are not asked to perform unnatural acts involving leadership,. courage, or rational thought.  At best, Lady Gwendolyn will be repeatedly embarrassed by her elders; at worst, she will have to dress up as a man and lead the RSC onto the battlefield, no fit place for a woman!  I submit to you that forcing an young girl to undergo this humiliation is cruel and unnecessary.
 
Nor is there any reason to allow an accident of birth to dictate the holder of the post of Royal Sorcerer.  MASTER THOMAS’S true genius lay in his organisation skills; he, more than anyone else, shaped both the Corps and the Royal College.  There is no true requirement for a Master Magician to hold the post; the old belief that the holder should be the most powerful and capable magician in service has been discredited.  Do we really expect a General to be physically stronger than a Sergeant?
 
In this era of instability, with the very strong possibility of yet another war with France, the last thing we need is uncertainty in the ranks of the Royal Sorcerers Corps.  I therefore call upon the government to reconsider its position and find a more suitable person to serve as Royal Sorcerer.  Certainly, there are any number of men within the Corps who, as an accident of their male birth, are intrinsically more competent than is this girl, Lady Gwendolyn.

Yours

Col. Sebastian.  (Blazer; 2nd Warwickshire Yeomanry Regiment.  Ret. 1830.)    

Chapter One

“It’s a shame you can't hide your chin,” Olivia said, as Gwen studied her own reflection in the mirror.  “Without it, you’d fool even a sharp-eye.”

Gwen snorted.  Her adopted daughter had grown up on the streets.  Physically, she was somewhere around ten years old – it was impossible to be sure – but mentally she was well over forty.  Children grew up quickly on the streets and those unlucky enough to be born female tended to suffer more than most.  Gwen had railed against her own upbringing, but she’d been lucky – very lucky – compared to Olivia.  A few more years and she would no longer have been able to pass for a boy.

“Use an illusion,” Olivia added.  “You could pass for a man without the outfit.”

“True,” Gwen agreed.  Creating illusions was easy.  “But I might not be able to fool a Sensitive.”

She studied herself thoughtfully.  The black jacket and white shirt she wore – the very latest in male fashion – had been carefully designed to hide the swell of her breasts, while the top hat disguised her short blonde hair.  She’d had to cut it short while she’d been training under Master Thomas, but she’d kept it short even after she’d succeeded him as Royal Sorceress.  It was short enough to pass for a slightly-effeminate male hairstyle, or so she hoped.  Elaborate wigs, which would have hidden everything, were currently out of fashion.  Even her mother, who would have fainted if she’d realised that Gwen was dressing up as a man, hadn’t been able to see when wearing wigs would be fashionable once again.  

Most importantly of all, she looked nothing like Lady Gwendolyn Crichton, Royal Sorceress.

“You’ll certainly fool those toffs you’re going to see,” Olivia assured her, with the certainty of one who knew.  “That lot never look very closely at someone wearing the right clothes.  I know conmen who profited simply by dressing the part.”

Gwen took one final look in the mirror and then turned, picking up the cane that had been passed down to her from Master Thomas.  The elderly magician had left her almost everything he'd owned, including money, property and a set of notebooks that were written in a scrawled hand that was almost impossible to decipher.  Looking down at it, Gwen felt herself feeling the same ambience she always felt towards the memory of her mentor.  Master Thomas had plucked her from her boring life and trained her as a sorceress – and she would always be grateful – but he’d also been responsible for unleashing a nightmare on London to defeat the Swing.  Gwen was one of the very few people who knew the truth, even though it was something she would have preferred to forget.

There was a knock at the door.  “Begging your pardon, My Lady, but Inspector Jude is downstairs,” the maid said.  “He awaits your pleasure.”

Gwen nodded to Olivia and walked to the door.  Cavendish Hall was massive, with several entrances that allowed her to leave unseen.  She might have been the Royal Sorceress, with the formal power to deal with all legal and military matters involving magic, but the remainder of the Sorcerers Corps was unsure of how to deal with her.  If they’d had another Master Magician, Gwen knew, she would have been expected to stand aside for him.  But they didn’t.  Some of the traditionalists were even making noises about appointing a committee of magicians to take Master Thomas’s place.  Only the newcomers supported her without reservation.

Inspector Jude stepped out of the carriage and nodded politely to Gwen.  Like her, he’d dressed up in the garments of a young nobleman, one of the many who were born and bred outside London and gravitated to the capital city when they came of age.  She had to admit that he wore the clothes better than her, complete with a hint of stubble that gave him a daringly rakish look.  No one would have taken him for a Bow Street Runner, at least not on first sight.

“They’re definitely having a meeting tonight,” he said, as she climbed into the carriage and sat down.  “We saw the Worshipful Master heading for the hall barely an hour ago.”

“Good,” Gwen said, tightly.  She always felt nervous before walking into trouble, even though she was fine once the trouble actually began.  “Let’s hope that it isn't just another false alarm.”

The Worshipful Order of Ancient Wisdom had seemed, at first, like just another craze spreading through legions of aristocratic men who refused to do anything useful with their lives.  Most of them were second or third sons who wouldn't inherit either land or property, leaving them living in considerable luxury without any real goals in life.  Those who had the inclination joined the army, or the navy, or even the Colonial Service.  The remainder just idled around London, enjoying an endless series of parties, hunts and other diversions.  It wouldn't be the first time that they’d started trying to play around with magic.

But there were rumours about the Worshipful Order, disturbing rumours, and it was Gwen’s task to investigate.  They’d become more blatant in the six months since the Swing, since Master Thomas had died, as if they didn't expect Gwen to hold them to account.  She’d known that they would have to do something the moment she’d read the file.  But punishing young aristocrats required a far higher level of proof than punishing common people.  

The carriage rattled noisily as it crossed the bridge and headed into Pall Mall.  Once, it had been the most expensive part of London, but that had been before the Swing, before rebels had held the capital city long enough to destroy many of the hated symbols of wealth.  Now, several dozen buildings were being rebuilt, yet the richer part of the population had started to gravitate outside the city.  Gwen’s brother had informed her that flats in Pall Mall were actually going surprisingly cheaply these days.

Inspector Jude didn't bother with small talk as the carriage turned the corner and headed down towards the Worshipful Order’s hall.  Gwen felt her stomach clench as she checked both the cane – which concealed a sword – and the hidden revolver she carried in her jacket.  There would be policemen, and a Talker, waiting near the building, but she’d had enough experience by now to know how quickly a situation could get out of hand.

“Here we are, My Lord,” Inspector Jude said.  “Remember to swagger as you jump out of the carriage.”

Gwen smiled as the carriage lurched to a halt, a moment before one of the doormen opened the door and waited for the occupants to step outside.  She jumped down, silently relieved that she no longer had to wear skirts at all, no matter how scandalous her mother and her friends found it, and strode up to the door with all the confidence she could muster.  Lord McAlister, her alter ego, wouldn't allow anything to stand in his path.  Gwen kept walking and the doormen simply melted away.  They knew that the Worshipful Master loved inviting the other aristocrats to his little coven.  Anyone who knew about it, they assumed, had been invited.  Gwen had no intention of correcting them just yet.  

“Ah, Laird McAlister,” the Worshipful Master said.  Gwen braced herself as his gaze flickered over her, but he looked away without seeing anything suspicious.  The smell of brandy suggested that he'd been fortifying himself before the meeting actually began, unsurprisingly.  Some of the party set could drink all night and never notice any ill-effects in the morning.  “Welcome, welcome; please, take a place in the hall.”

Gwen nodded and headed into the main room.  It had been heavily altered to suit the Order’s needs, complete with two stone tables in the centre of the room, one much larger than the other, and five heavy chandeliers of lights hanging high overhead.  They spun slowly, casting odd shadows over the spectators – and the robed members of the Order.  Apart from the Worshipful Master himself, they all wore masks to conceal their identities.  It was another sign that they were pushing the limits, even for men with fine aristocratic families.  They really didn't want to be caught.

The room filled up slowly.  As Gwen had expected, there were twelve members of the Order openly decked out in their ropes, and around forty unrobed men who seemed to be nothing more than spectators, all instantly recognisable to someone who had grown up in the aristocracy.  The unrobed men were drinking heavily, served by maids who walked from person to person carrying glasses and bottles while doing their best to avoid groping fingers.  There didn't seem to be any aristocratic women in the room, for which Gwen was grateful, knowing that one of them might have been able to see through her disguise.  Besides, aristocratic women were prone to a different sort of silliness than the men.  

“Welcome, one and all,” the Worshipful Master said.  The doors slammed closed with a heavy thud.  “Today, we will crack open the secrets that lead to magic and invest ourselves with the power of sorcerers!”

He produced a book and placed it down on the smaller table.  Gwen recognised it at once and had to fight to keep her face calm.  The volume, written by a mad Arab, was well known in the occult world, but it was all nonsense.  Certainly, none of the spells within the volume had worked when the Royal College had tried them, back during the early days of magic.  And none of the known forms of magic had been listed in the book.

“We shall summon an entity from the ninth plane of hell,” the Worshipful Master said.  He certainly sounded as though he believed what he was saying, although Olivia had once told Gwen that sounding sincere and honest was a vital requirement for being a conman.  “To prepare the room, we will chant a summoning rite.  Join us, once you pick up the words.”

He clicked his fingers, and then started to chant in a language Gwen didn't recognise.  A moment later, the other brothers joined in, creating a sonorous, almost hypnotic effect.  It was nonsense – magic simply didn't work that way, as Gwen knew better than anyone – and yet it was captivating.  The rhythms were easy to learn and follow; one by one, the audience slowly joined in with the brothers.  She exchanged a brief look with Inspector Jude and started to mutter the words herself, wondering which language they were using.  Or maybe the Worshipful Master had made them up.  It wouldn't be hard to come up with a few dozen nonsense syllables and recite them with apparent sincerity.  

The chant seemed to change once everyone had picked up the words.  Gwen listened as the Worshipful Master added his own words, his voice echoing out over the background, while the brothers kept repeating the same mantras.  He would have made a good singer, she considered, if he’d been able to go on stage, but it would have been a major scandal.  It wouldn't do for the scion of an aristocratic family to stand up and sing like a common music hall jockey.  

Finally, a bell rang and the Worshipful Master fell silent.  The chant slowly died away, leaving them standing silently in the midst of the room.  

“We have been heard,” the Worshipful Master said.  “He hears us.  He is coming.”

A dull thump echoed through the hall.  Despite herself, Gwen tensed.  There was so much they didn't know about magic; it might just be possible that the Worshipful Master and his Order had stumbled into something new.  But all of her instincts told her otherwise, despite the shiver running down her spine as another thump shook the building.  And then a door opened at the far end of the room and two more brothers, robed and masked, walked in, carrying a girl between their shoulders.  She was naked, but didn't seem aware of it.  One look and Gwen knew that she had been drugged.  The dull expression in her eyes was proof of that.

“We will offer this life to the dark one,” the Worshipful Master said quietly, as the Brothers helped the girl onto the larger stone table.  “She will die and we will be rewarded with power beyond imagination.”

Gwen glanced at Inspector Jude, who nodded, one hand reaching into his jacket for his concealed revolver.  Nodding back, she closed her eyes and sent a single thought to the Talker outside the building.  Come.  

“With this blade,” the Worshipful Master said, “we will send her to the afterlife and...”

Gwen stepped forward and reached out with her magic, yanking the knife out of the Worshipful Master’s hand.  He stared at it, and then at Gwen, his face twisted with disbelief and shock.  Gwen caught the knife in one hand – one glance at it told her that it came from John Wells, a well-known fake magician – and slammed it to the floor.  It shattered into a spray of stone fragments.

“You are all under arrest,” she said, drawing on her magic to illuminate her form.  They’d see through her disguise now, so she pushed as much Charm into her voice as she could.  “Sit down and wait quietly until the police get here.”

Some of the aristocrats, too weak-minded or drunk to shake off the Charm, complied at once.  The others, already panicking, kept running, heading for the doors that led to the outside world and freedom.  None of them could afford to be caught.  A handful produced weapons and hesitated, unsure if they should be pointing them at Gwen or at the Worshipful Master.  Gwen had no doubt that they were wondering if they could convince their families that they were actually spying for the government...

The Worshipful Master snarled and produced another knife, throwing it at Gwen with lethal force.  Gwen caught it effortlessly and threw it back, angling it right between his legs.  He let out a yelp as the knife sliced through his robes and fell over backwards, just as two other bystanders opened fire on Gwen.  The bullets bounced off her magical shield and ricocheted around the hall.  One of the Charmed aristocrats on the floor let out a yell as a bullet grazed his shoulder.  

“You are under arrest,” Gwen repeated, as Inspector Jude produced a pair of handcuffs and cuffed the Worshipful Master.  Down below, policemen were flooding into the building, rounding up everyone inside.  No doubt most of them would claim to have nothing to do with the Order; some of them might even be telling the truth.  But Gwen found that rather unlikely.  “Tell me; just what did you expect would happen when you killed the poor girl?”

The Worshipful Master glared at her.  “I would have been granted power far superior to yours,” he snarled, finally.  Gwen couldn't tell if he was serious, or if he was still trying to con her.  He really should have known better.  “And then I would have ruled the world.”

Gwen shook her head as two burly policemen arrived.  “Have him taken to the cells, somewhere separate from the rest of his Order,” she said.  The remaining members of the Order had surrendered without a fight and, once they’d been cuffed, their masks had been removed.  Gwen recognised all, but one of them as scions of powerful families.  Their arrest was likely to lead to a power struggle between the King’s Government and their relatives, all of whom would be outraged at their children being arrested.  “And keep them separate as well.”

“Certainly, My Lady,” Inspector Jude said.  The policeman beside him gave Gwen a sharp look, as if he hadn't realised that she was female until Jude had pointed it out.  “I trust that you will be taking the case directly to the Home Secretary?”

“I will,” Gwen said.  Master Thomas could have dealt with everything on his own authority – but he’d had sixty years of experience and knew where most of the bodies were buried.  Gwen had much less latitude ... and far more political enemies.  The ones who didn't consider her a foolish female – never mind the fact that Queens tended to be better for the country than Kings – believed that she was too young to do her job.  “And see where they found her.”

A police doctor was already looking at the intended sacrifice.  “She’s been drugged, probably with a light doze of chloroform,” he said.  “It would probably be better to let her recover here and then transfer her to one of the hospitals, where she can be interviewed.”

“See to it,” Gwen ordered.  “I can write a chit for a Healer’s services, if necessary.”

She took one last look at the Worshipful Order of Ancient Wisdom and then walked out of the door, back onto the streets.  A small army of policemen were identifying, booking and finally marching off the aristocratic witnesses, using kid gloves.  Gwen found it hard to blame them; even a very junior aristocrat could file a complaint that would ruin a constable’s career.  The Bow Street Runners might have been purged of the worst of the corruption after the Swing, when they had failed to keep the streets under control, but there were still bad apples within the bunch.  

Taking a copy of the arrest list from Inspector Lestrade, who could never have passed for an aristocrat, she walked off in the direction of the Houses of Parliament.  If she knew Lord Mycroft, he’d still be working on papers in his office until midnight and he'd need to see the arrest list as soon as possible.  The Worshipful Order of Ancient Wisdom would create a political nightmare as soon as they were released from custody.

But there had been no choice.  Sacrificing a human being was very definitely crossing the line, even though Gwen had known that it would be futile.  They’d had to be stopped, even if it meant risking the stability of the government – or even if it meant risking her own position.

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

Chapter Two

During 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 files.  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 files 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 hadn't been able 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 without hesitation.  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 on 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 up 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 have been shook 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 piecing.  “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 forgotten about safely.  “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 accustomed to listening 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 ...

Gwen had never considered herself either a setter or a follower of fashion.  Lady Mary, Gwen’s mother, worked hard to keep up with the latest fashions, but Gwen had never been interested in following her mother down that path.  Now, however, she had set a new fashion.  Upper-class women were walking around in trousers and shirts, looking for all the world as if they were dressing up as their fathers.  The stanchly-conservative sections of society were horrified, but their quiet – and sometimes not so quiet – disapproval had failed to halt the trend.  Indeed, it had only given it momentum.  

Not that it was entirely useless, Gwen considered.  Many of the upper-class women wanted to do something useful besides marrying and giving birth to the next generation of aristocrats.  It was customary for many wealthy women to become involved with charity work, but the trouser brigade had taken it one step further and actually gone to work.  A surprising number of them had even gone into the hospitals that Gwen had helped establish for the poor.  Their future husbands would have heart attacks when they found out.  

“The older you are, the harder it is to accept that the world is changing,” Lord Mycroft said.  “And there is a strong impulse to simply dig in one’s heels and refuse to tolerate even the merest change.  Give them time.”

Gwen snorted.  “How much time?”

The Swing had ensured that all males over twenty-one got the vote.  It hadn't extended the same right to women, something the trouser brigade found hideously offensive.  They’d started campaigning at once, demanding enfranchisement ... Gwen had no idea where that would end up.  She’d felt nothing, but contempt for women like her mother, who were quite happy to leave such matters to the men, yet she had no idea if women would be wiser when it came to voting properly.  How could someone whose main interest lay in dominating the social scene be trusted to direct the country’s future?  But then, similar arguments had been used against granting all men the vote.  Where did one draw the line?

“Enough,” Lord Mycroft said.  He rose to his feet and half-bowed to her.  “You have done well today, even if it will cause political problems.  But we can come to some agreement with their families.”

Gwen scowled as she stood up.  No doubt the members of the Worshipful Order of Ancient Wisdom would be given a slap on the wrist, although she trusted Lord Mycroft to ensure that they had a scare before they were allowed to go.  They’d come within inches of murdering a young girl ... 

“Just make sure they stay out of politics,” Gwen advised.  “And I’ll see you at the ceremony tomorrow.”

“I will not be at the ceremony,” Lord Mycroft admitted.  “However, the Duke is looking forward to seeing you, I believe.  He is quite grateful for some of your innovations.”

Gwen nodded.  Somehow, she wasn’t surprised that Lord Mycroft wouldn't be coming to the ceremony.  The last thing that had caused him to alter his daily routine had been an armed uprising in the centre of London.  But the reminder that the Duke of India, the Prime Minister of Great Britain and her Empire, was on her side made her smile.  Not every older man saw her as a threat to their position, or a silly girl playing with forces she didn't understand.

No, she thought, as she turned to leave.  Just most of them. 

Chapter Three

“Lady Gwen?”

Gwen swallowed a very unladylike curse as she opened her eyes.  She’d asked Martha to wake her at seven o’clock – the ceremony was meant to be at ten – but right now she just wanted to go back to sleep.  Her maid peered at her nervously, one hand carrying a steaming mug of imported coffee.  Even after several months, Martha was still unsure of her position in Cavendish Hall.  

“I’m awake,” Gwen muttered.  The temptation to just skip the ceremony was overpowering; she had to grit her teeth and push it aside.  “Put the coffee on the table and then run me a bath.”

“Already done,” Martha assured her, wryly.  “You must have been sleeping like a log.”

Gwen nodded.  She should have gone to bed as soon as she returned to Cavendish Hall, but she’d had to write a quick report for the files.  It had been past midnight when she’d finally entered her rooms and collapsed on the bed, without even bothering to get undressed.  Her suit, unsurprisingly, felt uncomfortable and filthy.  

“Thank you,” she said, remembering her manners.  She'd scared too many servants away when they’d realised that she’d had magic, even as a young girl.  “Please remind Olivia that she doesn't have to attend the ceremony.”

She watched her maid go and then took a sip of the coffee.  It tasted unpleasant, but she had to admit that it woke her up properly.  Master Thomas had introduced her to it, claiming that it would one day replace tea as the foremost drink in the British Empire.  Gwen had her doubts.  It just tasted vile.  

Shaking her head, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up.  Master Thomas had set up the suite for himself, years ago; Gwen was still privately amazed that Cavendish Hall had largely survived the Swing, rather than being burned to the ground.  Her best guess was that Jack had felt sentimental, which seemed unlikely.  His memories of Cavendish Hall would have been tainted by the truth of his own origins.  Or maybe he’d planned to assimilate all the knowledge stored within the Hall before destroying it.

One advantage of wearing a suit, Gwen had decided long ago, was that it was considerably easier to take off than the formal dresses most girls were required to wear.  The trouser brigade probably agreed.  Pulling off the suit and placing it in the basket for the maids to collect for cleaning, she walked into the bathroom and looked down at the tub.  Hot and cold running water was a feature of stately homes in London – and running water would be made available to everyone, once the pipes were in place – but she had no hot water.  Master Thomas had told her that it was an excellent test for young Blazers.  It was difficult to harm oneself with one’s own magic, yet if the Blazer happened to overheat the water he’d burn himself.  Gwen had learned rapidly to be very careful when heating her own water.  

“Pain is the great teacher,” Master Thomas had said, the first time she’d burned herself.  “And why didn't you think to put in more cold water?”

Gwen flushed at the memory as she climbed into the tub and relaxed, allowing the water to cleanse her skin.  Magic was so useful that it was difficult to realise that it had limitations, at least until the magician came face to face with them.  Or, for that matter, that not thinking could have disastrous consequences.  One young Blazer had tried to heat the water while he was in the bath.  If Lucy hadn't been in the building he would have died before anyone could have saved his life.  

It was tempting just to close her eyes and sleep, but there was no time.  Instead, she pulled herself out of the bath and used a towel to dry her body.  Martha knew better than to touch the suits she’d left in the wardrobe, but she’d laid out a set of underclothes on the bed.  Gwen sighed as she pulled them on, followed by another suit, practically identical to the one she’d slept in.  She didn't have the time or the inclination to design other suits for herself.  

Besides, she thought sourly, the dressmakers would be happy to design them for me, just so they could say that I was one of their customers.

Pushing the thought aside, she stepped out of her suite and walked down towards the dining hall.  Months – it felt like years – ago, she’d had a food fight with some of the young male apprentices, back before the Swing.  They'd been offended by the mere thought of a female joining the Royal Sorcerers Corps, let alone that she was Master Thomas’s apprentice.  Now ... some of them were dead, killed in the Swing, or promoted upwards.  There was less time for fun.

Not that you thought it was fun at the time, she reminded herself, as she sat down at the High Table, reserved for the Senior Magicians.  Even the youngest of them was ten years older than Gwen herself – and he’d spent most of his life in India, before being brought back to Britain to fill a dead man’s shoes.  

The hall was almost empty, save for a handful of students who would be spending the day desperately cramming for their exams.  Gwen had brought in a number of students from lower-class backgrounds, attempting to replace the sorcerers who had died in the fighting.  Unfortunately, they rarely knew how to read or write, let alone the basics that every upper-class pupil was expected to know.  Tutoring them was an additional expense, but one Gwen thought would be worthwhile.  Not everyone agreed.  

She accepted a plate of bacon and eggs from one of the servants and started to eat.  No one was quite sure of the relationship between magic and food, but almost every magician found himself hungry after working magic – and it was very rare to see a fat magician.  Gwen ate more than her mother ever had and yet she was almost painfully thin.  Or perhaps it was the physical exercise.  Master Thomas had been a keen believer in that too.

“Lady Gwen,” a voice said.  “Good morning to you.”

Gwen nodded politely as Sir James Braddock sat down next to her.  He was a tall man, handsome in a bland kind of way, with short blonde hair and a strong chin that would probably have sent her mother into fits of delight.  A strong chin, she’d once claimed, was the mark of a true hero.  If she’d been there, she would probably have encouraged Gwen to marry Sir James, even though he was ten years older than her.  Sir James was a true hero.  Everyone said so.  

“Why, Sir James,” she said, tightly.  “Is it not a positively delightful morning?”

It wasn't really Sir James’s fault, but she resented his presence – and that of the rest of his team.  The Royal Committee had recalled Merlin – the Empire’s foremost team of combat magicians – from India after the Swing, in hopes of using them to replace Master Thomas.  Gwen couldn't argue with the logic, but she suspected that they’d seen it as a way to express their lack of confidence in her, no matter how they managed to justify it publically.  

And besides, Sir James could irritate her at times.

Which makes him better than most of the Royal Committee, she told herself, sharply.  They manage to irritate you all the time.

“We’re being tapped to provide security for the ceremony,” Sir James said, as if Gwen didn't already know that.  She’d signed the papers personally, after reading them carefully.  “And I understand that the Duke of India wishes to talk with us afterwards.”

“Maybe,” Gwen said.  Master Thomas’s death had opened up a great many possibilities, particularly for those in power who thought that the Royal Sorcerers Corps had been allowed too much independence for too long.  “But you will attend the other ceremony.”

Sir James looked at her sharply, then nodded.  At least he didn't seem inclined to give her grief to her face, although God knew how he talked about her behind her back.  Gwen had ended up sacking one prominent Blazer outright after he’d stepped well over the line, which had earned her more enemies – and a persistent critic who wrote a new letter to The Times every week.  She couldn’t understand why the newspaper kept publishing them.  

They finished breakfast in silence.  Several of the other senior magicians, the ones who didn't live in Cavendish Hall, would be making their own way to the ceremony.  Gwen was silently grateful for that, even though Master Thomas would have had them all coming to Cavendish Hall first, just so they could show their respect.  At least she wouldn't have to put up with their company in the carriage.

“I’ll see you at the ceremony,” she said, as she stood up.  “And remember – try not to start a fight with any of the former rebels.”

She saw Sir James scowl – and, briefly, allowed herself a moment of amusement.  The general amnesty that had followed the end of the Swing hadn't sat well with most of the more conservative members of the aristocracy, who would have preferred to ensure that anyone who dared raise a hand against them had it cut off.  There had been no choice – even if the Redcoats had eventually crushed the rebellion, it would have devastated much of Britain – but they didn't really believe that.  They’d been in power for too long.

“I won't,” he promised.

Gwen would have preferred to fly to Soho under her own power.  But it would have been far too undignified for the Royal Sorceress.  Instead, she rode in a carriage that at least allowed her some privacy – and a chance to get her feelings in order.  It had been six months since she had last set foot in Soho, during the height of the Swing.  Since then, the area had been burned to the ground – rebels and redcoats working in harmony, for the first and probably the last time – and every last undead monster had been destroyed.  Or so they hoped.  The undead were a puzzle, even to theoretical magicians like Doctor Norwell.  They shouldn't have managed to live and shamble around, let alone spread like a virus.  

There were already massive crowds outside as the carriage pulled up beside the others.  Gwen climbed out without the help of the coachman and looked around, unable to avoid noticing how many of London’s great unwashed had come to see the ceremony.  After all, it was theirs as much as it belonged to the upper classes – although neither side really knew the truth about what had happened in Soho.  She caught sight of a handful of aristocrats she knew and allowed herself another brief moment of humour.  They looked as if they wanted to hold their noses and didn't quite dare.

Soho had been abandoned after the first Cholera outbreak had killed thousands of civilians, something that – in hindsight – should have warned people that the government had an interest in leaving it that way.  They’d used the rotting disease-ridden buildings to conceal a great secret, one that had come far too close to destroying London utterly.  And Gwen was one of a very few people who knew the truth.

These days, Soho had become a garden.  The greatest landscape artists and sculptors of the Empire had competed to turn the remains of the district into a fitting monument for two heroes; Master Thomas and Jack.  Gwen rolled her eyes as she saw the two statues, towering over the humans thronging through the park.  Master Thomas might have looked that dignified in real life – he’d certainly been the most dignified man Gwen had ever met – but Jack had never had so many muscles on his arms.  The sculptor had placed him in working class clothes, reminding everyone that Jack had chosen to fight for the poor.  

The official version of the story blamed everything on France.  But then, it was easy to convince the British public that the French were behind every last problem that beset the British Empire.  After all, if the French could do something as diabolical as sending a monkey to spy on Hartlepool, who knew what else they could do?  They would certainly have no difficulty manipulating Jack and Master Thomas into going to war with one another ... and then unleashing the revenants to ensure that London was completely destroyed.  Yes, everything could be blamed on the French.

Gwen looked up at the statues, shaking her head slowly.  What would the adoring public, rich and poor, say if they ever found out the truth?  Master Thomas had unleashed the revenants at the command of the British Government, hoping to ensure that the Swing was terminated before it was too late to save the Empire.  He and Jack hadn't allied to fight the revenants; Master Thomas had commanded the small army of undead monsters.  And Gwen herself ... the official version had her bridging the gap between the two men.  No one knew that she’d effectively betrayed her tutor to stop him from wiping out the entire city.

Perhaps it is better that way, she thought.

But she couldn't help thinking that it was likely to come back to haunt them sooner or later.

Someone was burning a French flag in the crowd, waving the flaming cloth around to general amusement.  The downside of the official story was that it encouraged hatred and rage towards the French – and made people wonder why the British Empire hadn't declared war.  And the French, knowing perfectly well that the revenants hadn’t been their fault, were protesting their innocence loudly to anyone who would listen to them ...

“Lady Gwen,” one of the organisers said.  “If you would care to join the Duke of India ...”

Gwen nodded and allowed him to lead her to the stage.  The Duke of India – the man who’d conquered the subcontinent, opening up a whole new world for the Empire – was a tough man, dedicated to his profession.  Being Prime Minister didn't agree with him, but he’d been the one man that King, Parliament and the public had been able to agree on.  Gwen had heard that he was actually very popular among his troops, even if he swore like a navvy half the time.  If nothing else, he enlivened Cabinet proceedings with his blunt view of the world.  

He nodded to Gwen as she sat down beside him.  “I wanted to thank you for the additional Talkers and Seers for the army,” he said, without preamble.  “They will make future deployments considerably easier to control, even if they do also make it easier for people to look over the commander’s shoulder.”

Gwen nodded, knowing just how the Generals and Admirals must feel.  But they were better off, surely?  The old days, when a squadron could be sent out on a mission and no one would know what had happened for weeks or months afterwards, were gone.  Now, ships could be directed from place to place as easily as a man could order dinner.  The days of command independence were also gone – and she knew that the commanders resented it.  How could someone in London truly understand the situation on the ground?

“I’m glad you took them,” she said, honestly.  The Duke of India was one of the few who didn't care about her sex, or her age.  He saw the world in terms of people who were useful and those who weren't.  As long as he considered Gwen useful, he wouldn't turn on her, or support her enemies.  “Convincing the Corps to accept lower-class magicians was difficult.”

“There are no such thing as bad men, merely bad officers,” the Duke grunted.  He’d led an army made up of men recruited from the dregs of society, honing them until they were a shining rapier in his hand.  The Kings and Princes of India hadn't known what had hit them until it was far too late.  “And magicians are too useful to turn down.”

He cleared his throat as silence fell over the crowd.  “I must speak,” he said, crossly.  He disliked public speaking at the best of times.  “We’ll talk later about future deployments.  Thomas was fond of giving advice, even when unasked.  You need to give advice yourself.”

Gwen nodded inwardly as the Duke rose to his feet and stamped over to the podium.  At least she wasn't being called upon to speak.  Royal Sorceress or not, the only women who spoke in public were those of the trouser brigade – or very upper-class women, trying to convince her fellows to give money to her charity.  Very few women would ever speak to a crowd composed mainly of the lower orders.  Why, they might be exposed to bad language.  Or the savage nature of those raised without perfect breeding and manners.

She gritted her teeth as she caught sight of Colonel Sebastian in the crowd, his gaze fixed on her face.  Sebastian hated her, although she wasn’t sure if it was because of her sex, her age or because he thought that he should have been Royal Sorcerer.  Certainly, reading between the lines of his letters to various newspapers, she thought it was the latter.  But Sebastian was not a Master Magician and could never have filled Master Thomas’s shoes.  

And besides, she thought, he would just have restarted the Swing.

She leaned back in her chair and tried to relax.  The ceremony might have been based on a lie, but was important – and yet it wasn't as important as the second ceremony, the one she’d arranged herself.  And then insisted that most of the senior magicians attend, no matter what other commitments they had.  They’d complain, loudly, but she had the authority, at least on paper, to compel them to attend.

And if they refused, she would not forget.

Or forgive.

Chapter Four

The house sat within a garden, behind a solid brick wall topped with iron spikes.  Gwen had taken a look at them, when she’d first visited the building, and decided that they made escape almost impossible.  The building didn't look like a prison – from the outside, it looked like just another large house bought by a family that was going up in the world – but it was a prison, in all but name.  Those who lived and died within its walls had no hope of escape.  

Gwen walked through the gates and stopped in front of the small crowd of senior magicians.  Apart from Lucy, who was standing to one side with a grim expression on her face, they were all male – and none of them seemed willing to meet her gaze.  There were truths that a properly brought up young lady wasn't supposed to know – and the existence of the building, and the others like it, was one of them.  It still shocked Gwen, sometimes, to realise just how ignorant she’d been, even though she’d been better read that most of her peers.  And theoretical knowledge was nothing like genuine experience.  

Good, she thought.  They’re all here.  

Sir James looked thoroughly uncomfortable as her gaze swept over him and his comrade, Peter Wise.  Gwen had never asked if Sir James had known about the farms – she hadn't wanted to know – but she suspected that he had.  A Mover so powerful would not have been allowed to risk his life in India without siring a few children first.  The fact that most of the women within the farms had been there against their will might not have bothered him as much as it should have done.  After all, they weren't upper-class women.

Beside him, Bruno Lombardi kept his gaze firmly fixed on the ground.  Gwen knew that he had been to the farms before his marriage – and that he might still be going there, if Gwen hadn't shut the whole program down.  She would have preferred to promote the shy Italian to a position on the Royal Committee – at least he didn't seem inclined to give her trouble over her sex – but it was unthinkable.  An Italian, even an Italian in exile, was not to be promoted over the heads of British citizens.  Besides, with the French firmly in control of much of Italy and the Pope a prisoner in the Vatican, it might have been unwise.  Who knew what Lombardi would do if they found a way to pressure him?

Lord Henry Brockton looked back at her, his face tightly controlled.  He hadn't made any secret of his disdain for her, even though he was politer about it than his former superior, Colonel Sebastian.  Gwen found him a constant trial, even though he never quite crossed the line that would allow her to fire him.  Besides, he was experienced and dedicated to the corps – and a war hero, as evidenced by the scar crossing his swarthy face.   His service in Ireland was unimpeachable.  

Gwen kept her face under control herself as she met Earl Jason Amherst’s eyes.  He was a tall thin man, with the same supercilious expression all Charmers seemed to share – and the awareness that he could talk anyone into anything, given enough time.  Gwen distrusted him, at least partly because he was related to Lord Blackburn, who’d had the same general attitude.  The Darwinists had been keeping their heads down over the past six months, but she was sure she knew who led them now.  Even if he hadn't been unfortunate in his choice of relations, she wouldn't have trusted him anyway.  Charmers were never trusted.

Finally, her gaze found Doctor Norwell.  “Well,” she said, into the silence.  “I trust that everything is ready?”

Doctor Norwell nodded.  As a theoretical magician, he could never hope to hold a high position in the Royal Sorcerers Corps, but he’d helped to expand the theoretical underpinnings of magic.  And he’d been one of Gwen’s tutors ... she doubted that he coped well with her sudden promotion; indeed, he had better reason to resent her than anyone else in the Royal College.  

Life isn't fair, she reminded herself, coldly.

No one was quite sure who’d been behind the farms.  Gwen had been tempted to blame it all on Lord Blackburn, but the Charmer had been thirty-two when he’d fled the country and the farms had been in existence for much longer.  The files, which were normally completely detailed, were vague on that point ... unless Doctor Norwell had seen fit to destroy some of them rather than giving the files to Gwen.  She could only wonder if it had been Master Thomas, or one of the long-dead Masters, or someone else.  And if that person was still around ...

She pushed the thought aside and cleared her throat.

“Years ago,” she said, in the blunt matter she’d learned from the Duke of India, “the Royal Sorcerers Corps, desperate for manpower, started to commit a series of crimes.  Young male magicians, born to poor families, were taken away for adoption.  Their mothers and fathers – and their sisters – were taken to buildings like this one, where they were turned into baby machines.  They were raped” – she smiled at their reaction to a word upper-class women were not supposed to know, let alone understand – “until they became pregnant.  If their children happened to be male, they were adopted by trusted couples and brought up as upper-class magicians.  If they were female, they were used to further the breeding program.

“The program’s value was very limited,” she added.  “Of all the children ... produced, only a quarter of them became magicians.  And only one of them, despite much enthusiasm, became a Master.”

Jack had known, Gwen knew.  He'd come from the farms – and it had been discovering the truth of his origins that had driven him away from his mentor.  It was quite possible, although no one knew for sure, that he’d even been Master Thomas’s son.  Later, before the Swing had truly started, Jack had blown up one of the farms, along with everyone inside, the innocent as well as the guilty.  Maybe he’d thought that he couldn't get the girls out before Master Thomas arrived ... or maybe he’d lashed out at the reminder of his own origins.  There was no way to know for sure.

“But the fact remains that it was a crime,” she said.  “I chose to shut the program down because it was a ghastly reminder of just how far we could fall.  We have enough magicians – and new ones coming – to no longer require the farms.  I want you all to witness the end of this building.”

She concealed her amusement at their expressions.  Some of them – Brockton and Amherst, certainly – would have wanted her to go to the farms.  If her father hadn't been so well-connected, Gwen might well have ended up a prisoner herself, drugged to keep her docile while she produced child after child until her body gave out.  Hell, there had been no need, according to the files, to kidnap children.  Poor parents of magical kids would have been happy to take a few coins in exchange for never having to see their witch-touched children again.

And besides, losing one child might allow them to keep the rest alive.

She turned and walked towards the entrance.  The heavy wooden door had been left ajar, allowing her to step inside without hindrance.  Inside, everything of value had been stripped from the walls; they’d even taken the carpet from the floors.  The building felt as if it had been abandoned years ago, rather than a mere four months.  It had taken that long to organise the distribution of the surviving women and children from the farms.

The clerks who managed finances for the corps had complained about the cost.  Giving each magician a stipend to keep them loyal wasn't too big a drain, it seemed, but ensuring that every woman from the farms didn't have to go onto the streets was too much.  Gwen had eventually ended up adding funds from Master Thomas’s legacy to ensure that the girls were safe, even though she’d been warned that most of them would probably lose it quickly.  And many children had been left orphaned ... she’d had to arrange for their adoption too.  They’d be the last of the farm generation.

She stopped outside an opened door and peered into the room.  It was bare, apart from a single bed in one corner.  Manacles hung from each corner, ready to hold someone down if they resisted ... some of the girls, she’d read in the files, had been particularly determined to escape, even after the drugs and beatings.  The chains looked strong enough to hold an elephant.

Bracing herself, she opened her mind ...

The images assailed her at once, blasting through her mind so powerfully that they drove her to her knees.  They blurred together into a single liturgy of horror and torment; there were so many of them that she couldn't pick out specific images.  If she’d been a Sensitive, she might have been driven mad by the exposure ... as it was, it took her several minutes to bring her mind back under control.  No wonder that so many Sensitives, particularly those who developed their powers in isolation, ended up in Bedlam.  They hadn't stood a chance.

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 creek 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 failing away.  

“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

Gwen 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’s accounts.  The walls held several portraits; a regal portrait of King George IV, a joint portrait of the first three Master Magicians and a large portrait 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 including 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, out loud.

“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.  Or, 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 management; 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?”

“Seventeen,” Norton said.  If he resented being interrupted, he didn't show it.  “The remainder come from the upper classes or ... adoptive families.”

The farms, Gwen thought, coldly.  If there was one detail that had convinced her that the whole program was useless as well as morally disgusting, it was the simple fact that only one in four of the children ever developed magic.  No one was quite sure how magic was passed down through the generations, but it was quite common for a magician to have children who didn’t seem to have magic.  Or, for that matter, for two non-magicians to produce a magical child.  Gwen’s parents had no magic and yet they’d produced a Master Magician.  

“Seventeen,” Lord Brockton repeated.  He looked over at Gwen and scowled.  “And what will they do to the morals of the other magicians?”

Gwen couldn't hide her irritation.  They’d gone over the same issue at every single meeting Gwen had chaired, without even coming up with new arguments.  By now, she could have argued their side – and the other side – in her sleep.  And it never seemed to go away.

The Royal College and the Sorcerers Corps had started by only recruiting magicians from the upper classes – or the middle classes, if the magician in question was powerful enough to allow them to overlook his origins.  Lower class magicians were rounded up and sent to the farms, which – unsurprisingly – encouraged the ones who escaped to stay underground.  Many of them had joined Jack’s rebellion when he’d made his desperate bid to overthrow the government, if only in self-defence.  They could expect no mercy if they were caught.

In the aftermath of the Swing, the Royal College had agreed to relax the barriers to entry, allowing lower-class magicians to enter formally and train with their social superiors.  It hadn't always gone well.  

“I seem to recall,” she said tartly, “that nine out of ten of the last discipline issues that reached my desk concerned upper class students.  And it wasn't a lower class student who had to be expelled for stealing from his classmates.”

“But such matters were not a problem before lower class students joined the Royal College,” Lord Brockton insisted.  “The morals of the next generation of magicians are being corrupted.”

Gwen rather doubted it.  She’d had a hard time during her first few weeks of training- and there had been no lower class students at the time – but then, she’d been the only girl to enter the Royal College.  In many ways, she had been very isolated.  No one had asked her to go out on the town for a night.  It just wasn't done.  

But he was right about one thing.  Upper class students picked on the lower class students ... and vice versa.  And yet it was hard to see what could be done.  

She smiled, sweetly.  “Would you wish us to stop recruiting Healers?”

Lord Brockton’s face purpled.  No one knew why, but all seven of the Healers discovered since the Swing were lower class.  The Royal College tested hundreds of potential candidates every month, yet they’d been unsuccessful in finding an aristocratic Healer ... in hindsight, Gwen suspected that they would have found Healers earlier if they’d abandoned their reluctance to recruit from the lower classes before the Swing.  

And all, but one of the Healers was female.

“Healers are a different issue,” he said, finally.  “They certainly cannot be trained with the other students.”

Norton cleared his throat.  “We shall graduate forty new magicians this year,” he said, defusing the tension in the room.  “Most of them are already earmarked for the military, but the police have expressed an interest in additional Movers, should they be available.”

“Tricky,” Sir James pointed out, quietly.  “We took losses during the Swing.”

Gwen nodded.  The uprising had killed nearly half of the magicians who had been in training at the time, as well as a number of experienced tutors.  In some ways, the problems Lord Brockton had complained about had been caused by the Swing; Master Thomas, whatever else he’d done, hadn't ensured that there were tutors held in reserve.  Given time, Gwen was sure that the problems would be overcome, but time seemed to be in short supply.

“The military comes first,” Lord Brockton insisted.  “We may be at war with France by the end of the year.”

“True,” Gwen agreed.  “On the other hand, we can keep a reserve of magicians in the capital and assign them to support the police.”

Surprisingly, there was no disagreement.  

Sir Benjamin MacIver, Head of Changers, coughed for attention.  “We must face facts,” he said, dispassionately.  “We need more magicians.”

“Hence the decision to recruit from all classes,” Gwen reminded him, tartly.  Sir Benjamin was less pointlessly obstructive than Lord Brockton, which made him all the more dangerous to Gwen’s position.  “We need to find more magicians as quickly as possible.”

“Indeed we do,” Sir Benjamin said.  “And while I share your disdain at the whole farm program, it was successful in providing us with additional magicians.  Right now, however, we are dependent upon nature to provide us with new recruits.”

Gwen fought down the flash of rage that threatened to overcome her.  Was she going to be fighting the same battle over and over again?   Oh, she could see their point – magic had made the British Empire supreme and that supremacy had to be maintained – but it didn’t change the fact that the farms had been grossly immoral.  And of questionable value.

“I believe that we can compromise,” Sir Benjamin oozed.  “We have considerable funds available to us.  It would be quite simple for us to pay women to have children with selected fathers and to supervise their upbringing.  Should they have magic, we could take them into the Royal College from a very early age.”

“But such a program would be public,” Doctor Norwell pointed out.  “It could hardly avoid being public.  And then we’d be risking ...”

“Very little,” Sir Benjamin stated.  “There are plenty of women from the lower classes who sell their children.  We would merely be purchasing the ones who ... meet our demands.”

Gwen took advantage of the argument to concentrate her mind.  She couldn't show her anger openly or they’d just dismiss her as an emotional women, too emotional to be allowed anywhere near a position of power.  Cold logic was required to outmanoeuvre Sir Benjamin, yet cold logic suggested that he was right.  Why not pay women to have children with the right fathers?

As Royal Sorceress, Gwen had been asked to patronise a number of charities, including one intent on keeping fallen women off the streets.  She’d looked into it before committing herself and discovered that the charity had a high failure rate.  Puzzled – she would have accepted any offer that took her off the streets, if she’d lived there – Gwen had asked Lucy about it.  And Lucy had pointed out that there were two factors that the high and mighty upper class women, who had never worked a day in their lives, had failed to take into account.

The first was economic; prostitutes earned more from prostituting themselves than they did by working in the jobs the charity had offered to them.  And the second was pride; no one liked to be talked down to by a handful of condescending women who knew nothing of the reality of life on the streets.  Or, for that matter, from churchmen who seemed to believe that they had a right to claim tithes from men and women who had little to spare.

“It seems a workable scheme,” Lord Brockton said.  “We could study the possibility and then decide if we wanted to commit ourselves.”

“I suppose we could,” Gwen said, keeping her voice under tight control.  “But have you considered the social impact?”

Sir Benjamin stared at her.  “The social impact?”

Gwen allowed herself a smile, then looked directly at Norwell.  “How many of our graduated magicians, the ones who would be expected to father those children, have wives and families of their own?”

Doctor Norwell blinked in surprise, but answered the question.  “Almost all of them,” he said.  “We increase the stipend for magicians who marry and produce children, so they have strong reason to be fruitful and multiply.”

Gwen looked back at Sir Benjamin.  “The married magicians will have very unhappy wives if they father children with other women,” she pointed out, mildly.  “Proven adultery can be used as ground for separation, even divorce.  You cannot order a magician to impregnate another woman – and even if you did, his wife would still be furious.  I think the results would be disastrous for morale at the very least.”

“Adultery is hardly unknown,” Sir Benjamin said.

“There is a considerable difference between something that can be overlooked and something that is so blatantly public that it cannot be ignored,” Gwen said, fighting to keep her voice under control.  “You seem to expect that every wife will accept her husband fathering children with other women.  Take my word for it; they will not take it calmly.”

She allowed her gaze to move around the table, gauging reactions.  Lord Brockton was looking thoughtful; clearly, he thought the idea was worth developing.  Doctor Norwell seemed to agree with him, which was a pity.  Gwen would have preferred him to be supporting her.  Others, however, seemed to recognise Gwen’s point.  Women might have no political rights, but that wouldn't stop them from making their husband’s life a misery if he acted too badly.

“Perhaps we could work on the project with unmarried magicians,” Sir Benjamin said, perhaps suspecting that he’d overplayed his hand.  “Or maybe we could just bury the details of who fathered who in the files.”

“That worked out so well for Master Jackson,” Gwen said.  She held up a hand.  “Your proposal is worthy of further study.”

And hopefully it can be studied to death, she added, in the privacy of her own mind.

The discussion moved on to the next few items on the agenda.  Several people had reported seeing large, yet intelligent animals in Liverpool, suggesting the presence of Weres.  Gwen rather doubted it – they could have come forward and joined the Royal Sorcerers Corps – but it had to be investigated.  A pair of combat magicians were detailed to Liverpool to see what they could find out.  At least there had been no reports that suggested that the Weres had gone feral.  When they did, they were always the most dangerous of animals.  

“The members of the Worshipful Order of Ancient Wisdom are threatening to sue us,” Norton said, when she asked if there was any other business.  “Apparently, we broke up a perfectly harmless meeting.”

We, Gwen thought, sourly.  She liked that.

“Not a good sign,” Lord Brockton observed.  “How many of them are well-connected?”

Gwen didn't bother to hide her anger this time.  “They were on the verge of murdering a young girl for nothing,” she snapped.  “I don’t know why they believed that murder would grant them powers beyond imagination, but all it would have done is left them with a dead body.  We – I – had to stop them.”

“Quite right,” Lord Brockton said.  “But the manner you chose to stop them caused embarrassment.”

“How much more embarrassment would it have caused them,” Gwen demanded, “if they had killed the girl and then got caught?”

She looked around the room.  “Our job is not just to use magic for the defence of the realm,” she reminded them.  “We are also meant to protect the realm from magic, real or faked.  And as for those ... fools who thought they could murder a girl and get away with it, they had to be stopped too.  And that is part of our job.”

On that note, the meeting ended.

Chapter Six

Master Thomas would have joined the senior magicians for a drink after the committee meeting, Gwen knew.  It was a chance to talk with them on a more informal basis – and relax, after getting his way in the meeting.  But it wasn't an option open to her.  Even if she hadn't been female, she was still much younger and less experienced than the men she was supposed to lead.  And besides, she preferred to spend time alone rather than with other people.  After spending much of her life in isolation, she had gotten used to it.

Back in her office, she looked down at the endless pile of letters and documents awaiting her signature.  Master Thomas had had a secretary to help with his mail, but the poor man had disappeared during the Swing and Gwen hadn't wanted to find a replacement.  Lord Mycroft had offered the service of one of his confidential clerks – the men who handled top secret papers buried in the government’s vaults – but Gwen had learned the hard way to make sure that she read everything she signed.  Giving that much power to someone else, when she had too many enemies, struck her as dangerous.  

Most of the letters, thankfully, were simple enough.  A handful were rather more complex, touching on legal matters; one of them addressed the pros and cons of using Talkers to interrogate suspects in prison.  Gwen read it with some interest, noted the conclusion and then signed it with a flourish.  It might be more convenient to have Talkers do the interrogations, but she couldn't think of anything more likely to cause a massive backlash against magicians in general.  No one liked the thought of having their thoughts read.  

We need to find more Sensitives, she thought, once she’d put the letter in the box for delivery.  They’d be better with interrogations, without intruding on someone’s privacy.

She contemplated it for a long moment, before putting the thought aside and turning to the next set of letters.  They were reassuring missives written to the parents of young magicians, assuring them that their children would be perfectly safe at the Royal College.  Two of them had been written specifically for a pair of mothers Gwen knew by reputation, who’d written to demand that their sons were not to have anything to do with low-born magicians.  They were going to be disappointed, Gwen knew; there were no social barriers in class.  Besides, she happened to know that at least one of the sons went out drinking and wenching every night.  

The next box contained letters sent to her personally.  Several of them came from charities, including two that she’d already politely declined to publically support; she put them aside for later consideration, when she had time to deal with them.  A number questioned her competence as Royal Sorceress; she picked them up with her magic and tossed them into the fire.  Two claimed to have found new forms of magic and she read them carefully, before putting them in the box to go to Doctor Norwell.  The letters could be hoaxes – they’d certainly had hoaxes before – but they would have to be investigated.  Everyone had thought that Healers were a myth until Jack had found one.

She gritted her teeth in irritation as she opened the second-last letter.  It was from another regular correspondent, who never seemed to notice that Gwen didn’t write back to her.  The elderly woman found the thought of her granddaughter wearing trousers – and working in the hospital – to be horrifying and insisted that Gwen do something about it.  How, the letter demanded, could the young girl expect to find a proper husband if she had a reputation for walking around without a chaperone?

“Idiot,” Gwen muttered.  Even if she’d been inclined to help, she didn't run the hospitals and she didn't have any legal authority over non-magicians.  Besides, it was the place of the girl’s father to object and he didn't seem to have any concerns – although, with a mother-in-law like that, he might just be allowing his daughter to go to the hospital to annoy her grandmother.  

The final letter was from her mother, inviting her to attend yet another fancy dress ball and hinting that a number of eligible young men would also be attending.  She’d never quite given up on the thought that Gwen would marry, one day; she didn't seem to realise that it was unlikely that anyone would want her.  What sort of man wanted a woman who was more powerful than himself?  Gwen was, as far as she knew, unique.  There were no other Master Magicians known to exist.

She sighed and pushed the letter towards the fire.  Lady Mary would just have to do without a second wedding, at least for a decade or two; she could wait until her grandchildren were old enough to marry.  

There was a knock on the door.  Gwen reached out with her magic and opened it.

“Begging your pardon, milady,” Sergeant Brandish said, “but there are two miscreants here to see you.”

Gwen pursed her lips together in annoyance.  She’d forgotten that she had to deal with students who had become a bit too unruly.  At least Sergeant Brandish – who’d been recommended by the Duke of India – could keep them under control while she found the notes she’d been sent by their tutors.  They were buried somewhere under the hundreds of other notes she was expected to read.  

I probably should get a clerk, she thought, sourly.

One of the miscreants was in big trouble – or should be in big trouble.  The other wasn’t a student at all.  Gwen scowled down at the note - there was no way to avoid the fact that she was about to lecture a man twice her age on behaving himself – and then looked up at the Sergeant.  

“Send in the first one, please,” she said.

Jonathon Dulcimer was handsome – and, judging by the way he swaggered into Gwen’s office, knew it.  He had black hair, cropped close to his skull like almost every other magician including Gwen herself, and a smile that suggested that he didn't really think he was in trouble.  And he had a pedigree that would have convinced Gwen’s mother to point her at him ... if she hadn't been magical herself.  Someone like Dulcimer would be horrified at the thought of having a wife who was more powerful than himself.

He reached for the chair on the other side of Gwen’s desk, without bothering to ask permission.  Gwen used her own magic to hold it in place, then glared at him until he stepped backwards, although he still held the air of irritating self-confidence.  Did he really think that she would tolerate any disrespect?  He was lucky he wasn't dealing with Master Thomas.

“Your tutors inform me that you have been molesting the maids,” Gwen said, with an icy sharpness that should have warned him that he was in deep trouble.  “I have no less than five complaints from different maids about your conduct.  Do you have anything you wish to say for yourself?”

Dulcimer blinked in surprise, perhaps expecting nothing more than a droll lecture – if that.  “I did nothing that they didn't want me to do,” he said, quickly.  “And I paid ...”

Gwen cut him off.  “You used your talent to pinch one of the maids,” she said, unable to hide her scowl.  Pinching a girl without touching her was an old Mover trick.  It had been tried on Gwen, back when she'd been Master Thomas’s apprentice.  But she could retaliate.  The maids had no such protection.  If Dulcimer had had the sense to pinch them when there was another Mover around, they wouldn't even have known who to blame.  “She had to be Healed.”

She pressed on before Dulcimer could say a word.  “And you tried to lure two other maids into your bed,” she continued.  “When they refused, you tried to molest them.  Did you think that would go unnoticed?”

But it might have done, if the maids had been too terrified to speak.  Or, if Dulcimer had used his brain, he might have realised that some of the maids were happy to share their charms with the student magicians, as long as they got paid.  Gwen disapproved, but apparently nothing could be done to stop it.  She’d seriously considered simply removing all the maids, before realising that they were necessary.  Perhaps she should just hire older women instead.  

She could expel Dulcimer – and part of her wanted to do just that.  But they needed Movers ... and expelling one for nothing more serious than playing with a maid would give the committee more ammunition to use against her.  None of them would take the maid’s objections seriously, not when they’d been deeply involved in running the farms.  For all she knew, they might even encourage the maids to sleep with the students.  

“They’re just maids,” Dulcimer objected.  “Everyone knows ...”

“Shut up,” Gwen hissed, pushing Charm into her words.  His mouth snapped shut with an audible click; he stared at her in mute horror.  He hadn't really believed that she had power, she realised; it just hadn't made its way through his mind.  “You will go tell the Sergeant that I am thoroughly displeased with your conduct and that he is to take immediate correctional measures.”

She held his eyes, silently daring him to look away.  “And you will not touch any of the maids, ever again,” she added, lacing her words with more subtle Charm.  Perhaps his mind was strong enough to break the compulsion, but if she was lucky, he’d never even question why he was staying away from the women.  Lord Blackburn, whatever else could be said about the traitor, had given her a solid grounding in Charm – and in how the human mind could be quite inventive in inventing justifications for accepting it.

“Yes, Milady,” he said.

“Go,” Gwen ordered.  “And send in the other miscreant.”

She watched him leave, looking rather less self-confident than he had when he’d entered the room.  Part of her felt like a bully, remembering all the tutors she'd scared off before Master Thomas had invited her to become his apprentice; part of her thought that he thoroughly deserved it, just as he deserved the thrashing the Sergeant would give him.  Maybe there was a good man in there somewhere.  Maybe.

There must be something about power that makes it so easy to abuse, she thought, tiredly.  

The door opened again, revealing an older man.  Sam Davis was, according to the file, around thirty years old – but he looked at least forty.  The file had stated that he’d been a Mover in the British Army in India and had fought bravely, before turning to drink in the aftermath of the Sikh War.  And now he was in deep trouble for public drunkenness – and for threatening to destroy a pub when the owner refused to serve him more beer.  If he’d carried out his threat, Gwen knew, nothing could have saved him.  He would have been hung after a short trial to determine his guilt.

He limped as he inched forward, the legacy of a wound suffered in India.  Gwen discarded the thought of making him stand to attention and used her magic to push the chair towards him, allowing him to sit down.  Up close, it was clear that he hadn't bothered to wash for a few days – or weeks; indeed, the policemen who’d found him had reported that he’d been sleeping rough.  And to think that he had enough money in his RSC pension to pay for a flat, even in London.  But he spent it all on drink.

“You need to clean up your act,” she said, softly.  Master Thomas would have yelled at him, but Master Thomas had been much older than the crippled Mover.  Gwen felt absurdly like she was telling off her father.  “Public drunkenness isn't good for the soul.”

“As if they care about my soul,” Davis said.  He was middle-class; in his prime, he’d been a more powerful Mover than Cannock, who’d taught Gwen how to use her talent.  But once he’d been crippled, the Corps hadn't bothered to find him another position.  “I am nothing to them.”

Gwen knew how he felt.  If a male Master Magician were to be discovered, she could easily see the Royal Committee trying to ease her out of her position.  Davis should have been offered more of a pension; hell, they could have put him in the farms and he would probably have been happy.  Instead, they’d just left him to rot.

And that wouldn't be her problem, if he hadn't been a magician.

“Listen to me,” she said.  “There are Healers now.  You could go to them and get Healed ...”

“And then go back to the war?”  Davis demanded.  “You think I want to fight again?  I can find other employment in London and ...”

He stopped, abruptly.  “But you’re just a chit of a girl,” he added.  “You wouldn't want to know about that, would you?”

“Probably not,” Gwen said.  A Mover could find work anywhere, even if he didn't want to work for the Royal Sorcerers Corps.  And if he cleaned up his act, she wasn't going to destroy his career by denying him permission to work outside the Corps.  “One moment.”

There were just too few Healers to heal everyone who might need treatment.  Gwen had prioritised magicians who were injured in the line of duty, then insisted that everyone who could pay a reasonable fee had to pay.  It never failed to irritate her how many aristocrats, men and women who had enough money to buy houses in the centre of London, tried to avoid paying to be Healed.  Didn't they realise that, six months ago, there were some wounds and diseases that were literally beyond all help?  Or, for that matter, that a wound that might be an inconvenience to an aristocrat could be disastrous to someone without enough money to fall back on when they lost their job.  

She wrote out the slip quickly, then passed it to Davis.  “That slip will get you a session with a Healer,” she said, simply.  “Your leg can be healed, then you can take up employment with whoever you want.  I won't stand in your way.”

Davis stared at her, as if he didn't quite believe his good fortune.  “But ... but I’m a drunk.”

“You can ask the Healer to do something about that too,” Gwen said, although she had her doubts.  Years ago, an aristocrat had ordered a Charmer to ensure that his son never touched opium again.  The young man had committed suicide shortly afterwards, for no apparent reason.  Doctor Norwell had speculated that the opium had filled a need in the young man’s mind, one that had never found something else to replace the drug.

“Thank you,” Davis said, still staring at her.  “But ...”

He stood up and bowed to her, then limped towards the door, one hand clutching the slip of paper as if it promised salvation – which, in a way, it did.  Gwen sighed, shook her head as the door closed behind him, then turned back to her papers.  Moments later, there was yet another knock on the door.  Tiredly, she pulled it open.

“Sir James,” she said, in some surprise.  “What can I do for you?”

Sir James gave her a brilliant smile.  “Merlin has been given orders to be on alert when the French visit the Palace,” he said.  “We’re assembling here tomorrow morning.  I was wondering if you wanted to run through the gauntlet with us.”

Gwen eyed him, thoughtfully.  The gauntlet was the final testing ground for combat magicians, men who had been taught to work as a team.  Maybe they couldn't be Masters, but Merlin had years of experience in combining their abilities for best results.  And yet they had little experience in fighting Masters.  Sooner or later, there was going to be another Master Magician who wasn't loyal to the British Crown.

“You want to try and catch me,” she said.  She needed the experience too – and besides, she wanted to work off some frustration.  It wasn't as if she had another Master to pit herself against either.  “It might be a good idea.”

“Splendid,” Sir James said, rubbing his hands together.  “You know, you really should spend more time with us, rather than the committee.  They’re dreadfully boring.”

“You’re on the committee,” Gwen pointed out.

“I’m an exception,” he assured her.  “And I won’t be there for much longer.  The Iron Duke will find a magician who can speak for the military and I’ll go back on active service.”

Gwen nodded.  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” she said.  It had been months since she’d last gone through the gauntlet.  It was designed for small groups, not a single magician who could evade most of the traps with ease.  “How many of the traps are you going to leave there?”

“None,” Sir James said.  “Just you and us.  How does that sound?”

“Fun,” Gwen said.  One way or another, she could let off her frustrations – and no one could object, at least not publically.  There were no other Master Magicians, after all.  “See if you can pin me down.”

“We won’t hold back,” Sir James assured her, mock-seriously.  “We know how dangerous women can be.”

“Out,” Gwen said, unable to hide her amusement.  “I’ll catch up with the paperwork tonight and give you the whole morning tomorrow.”

She watched him go, then turned back to the papers, working her way through them one by one.  Nothing seemed to be out of place, but still ... she worried that, one day, she would sign away something important.  And yet if the paperwork kept rising up, she would eventually be buried under the weight.

“Boring,” she muttered aloud.  “I need something else to do.”

Chapter Seven

Gwen couldn't help a thrill of anticipation as she washed, dressed and ate breakfast the following morning.  The Royal Sorcerer was supposed to be a fighter, but she'd done very little fighting since the end of the Swing and she was surprised to discover just how much she’d missed it.  Fighting was rough and tumble, with the very real danger of serious injury ... and yet it was much simpler than the political and bureaucratic skirmishes she had to wage every day.  Even the prospect of taking on Britain’s foremost team of combat magicians couldn't dull her excitement.

Several buildings near Cavendish Hall had been destroyed during the Swing, allowing the Royal College to snap them up the aftermath and add their grounds to the training area.  One of the buildings was being rebuilt to serve as extra living space for the magicians and their servants; the other piles of debris had been taken away or used to help build the Gauntlet.  On the face of it, it was nothing more than a makeshift village – more of a hamlet – that served as the training ground.  Anyone who walked into the hamlet without taking due precautions, however, would swiftly wind up in trouble.  The hamlet was designed to trap magicians.  

We’re not invincible, Gwen reminded herself, as Sir James escorted her around the edge of the hamlet to where she would enter the Gauntlet.  Merlin would enter from the other side, with instructions to capture Gwen before she could make it out.  Excited as she was, she also knew that she could get hurt; the six combat magicians who made up the team wouldn't hold back, And they were far more experienced than Gwen herself.

“I’d wish you luck,” Sir James said, “but ...”

Gwen had to smile.  “I understand,” she said, dryly.  “I could always wish you bad luck, couldn't I?”

Sir James laughed and walked away.  Gwen watched him go and then turned her attention back to the Gauntlet.  The edge of the training area was marked by trees, each one large enough to provide a surprising amount of cover – and conceal the training exercise from prying eyes.  No one was supposed to enter until they got the word, whereupon ... she’d have to get through it, rather than just beat the combat magicians.  She could take out five of them and still lose.  

Choose your attacks carefully, she reminded herself.  And try to shape them towards the person you’re fighting.  

She shook her head and waited.  Patience might be a virtue, as her mother had remarked more than once, but it wasn't one of hers.  How long would it take for Merlin to get ready to move?

A thought touched her mind.  Go.

Bracing herself, Gwen stepped through the trees and into the hamlet, crouching low.  A handful of buildings, none of them much larger than a backyard shed, greeted her, providing a limited amount of cover.  But anyone who relied on them for safety would run into trouble; the tall grasses surrounding them concealed hidden pitfalls and other dangers.  Concentrating, she tried to pull an illusion of nothingness around her.  It wouldn't make her completely invisible, certainly not in broad daylight, but it should make her harder to see.  

She briefly considered throwing herself into the air and making a run for the far edge – she won by escaping, even if they all survived without being taken out – before dismissing the idea.  It wouldn't work, not when there was absolutely no cover in the air.  They’d see her and then their Movers would pull her out of the sky.  Or simply disrupt her magic and let gravity do the rest.  

In the distance, she could hear the sounds of birds calling as she inched forward.  She couldn’t hear anything that suggested that Merlin was advancing on her position, which suggested that they were sticking close to the exit.  It made sense, she knew; they won by stopping her and she had to reach the exit to win.  Sweat trickled down her face as she kept moving, reaching out with her senses.  If there was someone lying in wait, she might just be able to sense them before they jumped her.  

Nothing materialised to block her path.  She passed two small buildings, carefully checking them out from a distance, yet there was nothing.  Where were they?  The third building seemed, just for a moment, to be occupied, before she realised that she was sensing a fox, hiding out in the city.  There was more wildlife in London than many people realised.  She smiled ... and then she sensed their presence.

She closed her eyes, concentrating.  There were at least two magicians ahead of her, but she couldn't tell which ones.  Sir James was smart and experienced; who would he send forward to flush her out?  Gwen would have sent the Blazers, knowing that they’d have the best chance to win quickly.  But it was quite possible that he had something else in mind.  And there was no time to think.

Quickly, she created an illusion of herself and sent it forward.  It wasn't quite right, but if they acted quickly they wouldn't have time to realise it.  There was a brilliant flash of light as one of the Blazers shot a beam of magic at the illusion, exposing his own position in the process.  Gwen fired a beam of her own back at him and heard a handful of colourful curses, none of them suitable for female ears.  Tagged, the Blazer would have no choice, but to withdraw.

She pulled her magic around her, forming a protective bubble, and ran forwards.  The second magician was infusing magic into the ground, preparing a minefield.  Gwen saw the magic destabilising and threw herself into the air, rising up as quickly as she could.  The ground exploded with blue fire a moment later, a trick she’d seen before, but rarely performed so well.  If she’d been a mere Blazer, she would have been caught in that second.  

A powerful force struck her bubble and sent her falling back towards the ground.  She pulled the bubble around her as strongly as she could, then winced in pain as she felt the feedback when the bubble hit the ground.  It popped a moment later, forcing her to concentrate to re-establish it.  She hesitated, then ran around the building, almost running right into another Mover.  He wrapped his own bubble around him as she fired another blast of magic into his face, then ramped up the brightness.  Gwen heard him curse as he covered his eyes, fighting to maintain his bubble.  She drew on her magic and skimmed away across the ground, hoping that he’d be too distracted to notice that she’d gone, at least for a few seconds.  

Flames roared up in front of her and she stopped dead, before realising that they had to be an illusion.  The other Blazer was a skilled master of illusions, according to his files; flames were simple, easy to produce.  She ran through them, feeling nothing, and looked around for the Blazer.  He was nowhere to be seen ... and yet he couldn't be too far away.  Very few illusions lasted longer than a few seconds if the magician just left them alone.  

Idiot, she told herself, a moment later.  She called on her magic and blazed away, lashing out at random.  The Blazer was so skilful that he could probably hide in plain sight.  A moment later, he fired back at her, clearly aware that there was no place to hide.  Gwen smiled as it bounced off her bubble, then struck him with her own beam.  He made a show of collapsing to the ground, dead.

“STOP,” a voice barked.  “FREEZE!”

Gwen froze as the command slammed into her mind.  The Charmer, she realised; he must have been waiting for a chance to Charm me.

She cursed inwardly, fighting the command.  It was powerful, more powerful than anything she’d experienced before, even from Lord Blackburn.  But the more obvious it was that someone was using Charm, the easier it was to fight it.  Magic sparkled in front of her and his control over her body snapped, allowing her to jump forward and throw herself right at the Charmer.  He lifted a hand, as if he expected her to hit him with her fists, and she knocked him into a wall with her magic.   She watched him crumble to the ground ...

... Something wrapped around her legs and pulled, hard.  Gwen lost her balance and started to fall, before realising that she was dangling from an invisible rope.  Sir James had finally shown himself, slipping his power through her defences while she took care of his teammates – he was good at it.  Gwen thought desperately as she saw him, standing in the middle of the grassy field, daring her to stop him before it was too late.  Catching sight of some rubble on the ground, she picked it up with her magic and hurled it towards him.

Her aim was bad and she missed, but the debris came close enough to force him to lose his concentration and Gwen had a moment to break free.  She fell towards the ground, barely catching herself before she would have landed badly.  Even Lucy, the most skilled Healer in the Corps, wouldn't have been able to put her back together again.  Gwen picked herself off the ground and threw a powerful bolt of magic towards Sir James.  He might have been only a Mover, but he blocked it effortlessly.  A moment later, he threw the debris back towards her.

Gwen muttered unladylike words under her breath as the debris bounced off her bubble.  Sir James had taken advantage of her distraction to run towards her, slamming his power directly into hers.  She winced in pain as her bubble wavered under the pressure; he had much more experience with his specific power, even if she possessed the full power set.  He winked at her, then altered his magic.  His protective bubble became a set of needles poking into her bubble.  Gwen stared in disbelief.  She’d never even thought that was possible.  

For a second, absolute panic held her spellbound, then she threw herself backwards as her bubble started to collapse.  Sir James pushed forward, refusing to give her any time to recover; Gwen forced herself to push the remains of her bubble right at him.  The magic hadn't faded completely, turning the remnants into needle-sharp fragments that sliced into his protections.  But they weren't powerful enough to overcome him completely.  

She lifted her hand, generating light again ... but Sir James just kept coming forward, covering his eyes.  He might not have the powers of a Sensitive, yet he didn't need them; his power pervaded the air, allowing him to locate her without much difficulty.  She gritted her teeth, reached out with her magic and tore into the ground, pulling up great clods of earth and throwing them at him.  The effort strained her to the limit, but forced him to slow down, just long enough for Gwen to turn and run.  If she could find cover, just for a second ...

A flash of light passed over her head, narrowly missing her.  The other Blazer, she realised; a confident man who’d impressed her more than she’d wanted to admit.  She twisted and threw magic back at him, but he ducked and evaded it.  Cursing, Gwen pulled a new bubble around herself and fired a second blast at the blazer.  And then Sir James caught her again.

Not this time, she thought, as his magic wrapped around hers and lifted her up into the air, despite her protective bubble.  He flipped her upside down ... did he really think that would discomfit her?  She’d learned how to fly, even upside down, months ago.  Gwen concentrated and hardened her bubble, feeling his magic crawling over hers.  This time, he wouldn't be able to break her protections so quickly ...

... And then his magic flickered.  Gwen frowned, puzzled, just as the pressure on her started to intensify.  How could anyone generate so much power?  It would take ... she saw it a moment later and cursed her own mistake.  She should have made sure that the other Mover was down and out before she ran into Sir James.  There were two of them pouring pressure on her shield.  She shuddered as she felt their magic crowding her, shaping needles that were slowly burning into her bubble.  It wouldn't be long before it popped and she was defenceless ...

Desperately, she called on her Charm.

“Let me go,” she ordered, pushing as much power into her words as she could.  “Let me go!”

The pressure lessoned, just long enough for her to hope that she’d succeeded, then tightened again.  Naturally; Merlin had a Charmer on the team and they would have practiced resistance until Charm barely affected them.  Gwen had done the same, although she was far less practiced.  She gritted her teeth, trying to hold out, but she was rapidly reaching the limits of her endurance.  And then her bubble burst and she fell.

Sir James caught her a moment before she hit the ground, slowing her fall so she landed gently.  She felt his magic crawling over her, holding her down, as he walked over towards her and tapped her on the forehead.  

“I think we win,” he said.  He had the grace to sound a little ashamed about it.  “But you didn't do badly,”

Gwen could barely move, even after Sir James’s magic had faded away.  She didn't think that she was physically injured, beyond a number of minor bruises that would heal quickly, but she was completely exhausted.  And he thought that she hadn't done badly?  If she’d had to face Master Thomas alone, she would have been beaten in short order.  She took the hand he held out to her and allowed him to help her to her feet, feeling the world blurring around her.  

“Here,” Sir James said.  He pushed something against her mouth and she sipped gratefully.  “Drink this.”

The water tasted pure and, at that moment, like ambrosia.  Gwen leaned on him long enough to recover her bearings, then gently let go of his arm.  He gave her an understanding look; she didn't dare show weakness in front of the committee.  If she gave them any excuse to think of her as a weak and feeble woman ...

I almost won, she told herself, angrily.  I’d like to see the Committee do so well.

But she knew that it wouldn't matter.

“You would have beaten any one of us,” the Charmer said.  Gwen couldn't remember his name at the moment, if only because she preferred to have as little to do with Charmers as she could.  “We had to work together to overwhelm you.”

“And should have stayed closer together,” Sir James grunted.  He looked tired too; Gwen felt a little better when she saw the sweat dripping off his brow.  “We could have won quicker if we hadn't wanted to catch you away from the exit.”

Gwen pulled herself upright as they stepped through the trees and out onto the lawn.  Refusing to waste such a fine day, the cooks had offered to prepare a garden lunch for the magicians and Gwen had accepted, before realising just how worn she was going to be after the fighting.  It had really been too long since she’d fought properly.  Perhaps she could convince Lord Mycroft to keep Merlin in London for a few more months.  There were other teams of combat magicians and India didn't need them as much as Britain.  

She pushed the thought aside as she sat down on one of the rugs and accepted a chicken leg and a bowl of salad from one of the servants.  Sir James joined her and chatted happily about nothing, while two of his teammates went over to the students and started telling them exaggerated stories – or at least Gwen hoped they were exaggerated – about service in India with the British Army.  Most of the new recruits would go to the army afterwards, Gwen knew; the threat of war could not be disregarded, even on such a lovely day.  

“You did extremely well,” Sir James said, loudly.  “You came very close to beating us.”

Gwen glanced at him in surprise, then realised that Lord Brockton had come close enough to listen to them without making it obvious.  Praise from Sir James for her wouldn't make Lord Brockton feel any better, but at least it would make him less sure of his allies on the Committee.  Gwen looked back at Sir James and wondered if she could count him an ally – and, if so, for how long.  He wouldn't remain in London indefinitely.  

Perhaps His Lordship should consider himself lucky, she thought, ruefully.  Master Thomas would have killed him by now.  

She finished eating, said her goodbyes and walked back into Cavendish Hall, heading back to her suite.  Martha had, thankfully, already laid out another suit; Gwen simply had to undress, wash herself quickly and then get dressed again.  Her body was covered with bruises, as she had expected, but they would heal quickly.  There was no point in asking Lucy to Heal them.

There was a frantic tapping at the door.  “Come in,” Gwen called.  

A maid, panting slightly, stepped into the room.  “Your Ladyship,” she said, between gasps.  “Lord Mycroft has arrived in his carriage.  He requests that you accompany him.”

Gwen blinked in surprise.  Lord Mycroft rarely changed his routine for anything or anyone, even the King.  Whatever the matter was, it had to be urgent.  War?  Had France declared war?

“I’ll grab my coat,” she said.  Thankfully, she was washed, dried and dressed.  She didn't want to ride in a stuffy carriage while she was still unclean.  “Tell him I’ll be with him in two minutes.” 

Chapter Eight

“Are we are war?”

Lord Mycroft regarded Gwen gravely as she climbed into the carriage and sat down facing him.  

“Not yet, but we could be soon,” he said.  He rang a bell and the carriage lurched into life, the coachman cracking the whip to make the horses move faster.  “A situation has developed that requires your presence.”

Gwen studied him, thoughtfully.  He looked ... mussed, as if he’d been forced to leave the office on very short notice.  Coming to think of it, she reminded herself, he rarely ever left the office.  Whatever had happened had to be urgent – or disastrous.  

Lord Mycroft leaned forward, resting his hands on top of his cane.  The pose reminded Gwen so strongly of Master Thomas that she felt an odd sense of Déjà Vu for a long moment, before firmly reminding herself that Master Thomas was dead.  She missed him, even with what had happened in his final hours.  If she’d had more time to learn the ropes, and impress the Royal Committee, would she have had so many problems now?

“Tell me,” Lord Mycroft said.  “Have you ever heard of Sir Travis Mortimer?”

Gwen hesitated, thinking hard.  “Not that I recall,” she said, finally.  He didn't sound like one of the men Lady Mary had tried to convince her would make a suitable husband – and he wasn't one of the people she dealt with as Royal Sorcerer.  It wasn't really surprising; there were so many people knighted in the British Empire that she couldn't hope to be familiar with them all.  

“He was one of your people,” Lord Mycroft said, with a single raised eyebrow.  “But, to be fair, he spent the Swing in India, so you might not have met him personally.”

Gwen flushed.  She didn't know every magician in the Royal Sorcerers Corps – and probably never would.  The sorcerers that had been sent to India or America or South Africa were on very long-term deployments.  Some of them might not even have heard that Master Thomas had died, to be replaced by a slip of a girl.  Even with Talkers, it took months for news to reach everywhere in the Empire.

“He was a Sensitive,” Lord Mycroft added.  “Quite an unusual fellow, really.”

Gwen nodded, tightly.  Sensitives were uncommon – and they tended to be predominantly women, rather than men.  Doctor Norwell had admitted, when pressed, that men liked having the big and noisy powers, but preferred not to talk about possessing the more subtle powers.  Charm was less effective if the victim knew that he was being Charmed ... and Sensitivity sounded disgracefully feminine.  Men!

But, masculine or not, it could be a very useful talent.  

“A powerful Sensitive,” she mused.  “What happened to him?”

Lord Mycroft scowled.  “Sir Travis was discovered dead this morning,” he said, grimly.  “I was informed immediately, naturally, and came at once to Cavendish Hall.  Your presence is required.”

Gwen winced.  Losing a magician hurt, even if she hadn't known him personally.  Maybe Master Thomas had been able to accept losing his people calmly, but she felt as if she would never master that skill.  She wasn't even sure she wanted to.  

“I see,” she said, thinking hard.  “What killed him?”

“A blow to the back of the head, according to the report,” Lord Mycroft said.  “Do you see why that is odd?”

“Yes,” Gwen said, slowly.  “A Sensitive should not have died that way.”

When she pushed her limits, she was almost completely aware of her surroundings, right up to the point where the sudden influx of information threatened to overwhelm her mind.  A Sensitive, with only one talent, would either go mad or learn to live with it – and if he succeeded, he’d have a formidable tool.  It was impossible to lie to a Sensitive, or prevent one from reading you, no matter how much you tried.  Even keeping one’s mouth shut didn't hide the reaction that betrayed your innermost thoughts.

No Sensitive had a comfortable life.  They rarely slept well – a single noise could awake them – and their marriages tended to end poorly.  Gwen knew, from watching her own parents, that there were matters her mother and father never discussed openly, but that option would never be available to a Sensitive.  Master Thomas had urged her to develop her Sensitivity, but never to rely on it.  A Sensitive could be crippled by a sudden loud noise.

She looked over at Lord Mycroft and frowned.  “Sir Travis was in India?”

“Indeed he was,” Lord Mycroft confirmed.  “And yet he managed to keep from being overwhelmed by the exotic.”

“Impressive,” Gwen admitted.   Maybe she would have liked Sir Travis, if they’d ever had a chance to meet.  Or maybe he would have been as smug and full of himself as many of the senior magicians.  “What do you want me to do?”

Lord Mycroft smiled.  “I want you to investigate his death,” he said, calmly.  “That is one of your roles as Royal Sorceress.”

Gwen blinked.  “I am no detective,” she pointed out.  “Surely your brother ...”

“My brother has ... other matters to concern himself with,” Lord Mycroft admitted.  “But even if he were free, it would still be your responsibility.  A magician is dead, seemingly murdered.  We must know the truth before time runs out.”

Murdered, Gwen thought.  It didn't seem likely.  Sneaking up on a Sensitive was impossible, unless the magician was drugged and comatose.  Sir Travis would have known if someone with murderous intentions approached him – or, for that matter, if someone had been Charmed into serving as an unwitting cat’s paw.  How could a murderer have gotten close to him?

Maybe he was tricked, somehow, she thought.  If nothing else, they would have to solve the mystery just so they could ensure it could never happen again.  But she honestly didn't know where to begin.

“Start with the crime scene,” Lord Mycroft advised.  “And then see where it leads you.”

Investigating magical crimes was part of the Royal Sorcerer’s job, Master Thomas had told her, but he’d never given her any formal training.  There just hadn't been enough time ... and there might not have been any formal training.  Gwen had watched Lestrade at work long enough to know that he had a habit of chasing the blindingly obvious or finding himself unable to work out how to proceed.  Scotland Yard just didn't seem to have very many detectives.  

But any one of them would be better prepared than Gwen.

“The police will be supporting you,” Lord Mycroft assured her.  “But you do have to take the lead.  It is expected of you.”

Gwen scowled.  If she pushed someone else forward, even Mycroft’s brother, the Royal Committee would snicker and claim that she was shirking her responsibilities.  And if she did try to find the killer, if there was a killer, they would claim that she was shirking her other responsibilities.  Master Thomas hadn't had to deal with so much backchat ...

 ... Or maybe he did, she reminded herself.  She’d never attended any formal meetings of the Royal Committee before he’d died, merely the emergency meetings before the Swing had gripped London and the government had had to flee the city.  

“Send me a couple of clerks,” she said, tiredly.  If she could shuffle the paperwork onto someone else – at least the task of filtering out the unimportant letters from the hundreds she received each day – it would make life a little easier.  And perhaps she could pass some decision-making down to the senior magicians.  She didn’t have to approve their training schedules, did she?  

“They will be at Cavendish Hall later today,” Lord Mycroft assured her.  “And don’t worry.  They know how to be discreet.”

The carriage rattled to a stop.  Gwen almost jumped as a hidden panel appeared behind her head, revealing the face of the coachman.  “The police are blocking the road up to the building, sir,” he said, to Mycroft.  “They insist that you have to walk.”

“Unsurprising,” Lord Mycroft said.  He stood up, opened the door and clambered out with remarkable agility for a man his size.  “You can wait with the other cabs until I come back.”

Gwen jumped down beside Mycroft and glanced around.  Like most aristocratic houses in this part of London, Mortimer Hall was surrounded by a brick wall that served more to mark the owner’s territory than actually provide a barrier.  Gwen could have scrambled over it without using magic; given that she could see apple trees rising up on the far side, she had a feeling that the young men in the district probably raided the garden regularly.  Olivia had told her that it was a common rite of passage among the young men unfortunate enough to grow up in the Rookery.  Raiding an aristocrat’s garden made them feel like they were fighting back, even though it was petty and pointless.

Lord Mycroft led the way down towards the gates, which were guarded by a line of burly policemen in blue uniforms.  She winced as she saw a handful of reporters already there, shouting questions towards the policemen and a handful of men in black suits, who probably worked for Mycroft.  Some reporters were decent people, she was prepared to admit, but others had a remarkable skill for twisting the truth into something unrecognisable, without ever actually telling a lie.   The freedom of the press was yet another consequence of the Swing – there were over two thousand new newspapers founded in London in the last six months – but there were times when she thought that it had gone too far.

And they recognised her, of course.

“Lady Gwen,” one reporter shouted.  “Do you have any comments?”

Gwen ignored them as best as she could, even though the questions were growing more and more absurd.  Hardly anyone seemed to know that Sir Travis was a Sensitive – which did make a certain amount of sense – and half of the reporters seemed to have decided that a magician had killed him.  It hadn't been that long since Jack had terrorised the aristocracy, after all.  A couple of rogue magicians could easily break into a house and kill the inhabitants ...

She pushed the thought aside as Lord Mycroft led her through the gates.  Mortimer Hall was smaller than Gwen’s own home, built in a dark gothic style that had been all the rage a hundred or so years ago.  It seemed to have survived the Swing with very little damage, but she couldn't help noticing that a number of windows were boarded up and the Garden had been allowed to slip out of control.  The handful of statues – all angels weeping and covering their faces, as if they were trying not to see the evil of the world – sent a shiver running down her spine.  

“I believe that Sir Travis’s mother died while he was in India,” Lord Mycroft said.  “His father died when he was very young, leaving her to bring up their child on her own.  She refused to move back with her family, even though there was no hint of scandal tainting the birth.  Instead, she stayed here.”

Gwen nodded, sourly.  Magical children terrified the non-magicians; God knew she’d terrified hundreds of servants into giving their notices and seeking employment elsewhere before Master Thomas had taken her to be his apprentice.  A Sensitive wouldn't accidentally burn down the house or go flying, but he’d still have too much insight and a complete lack of discretion.  Gwen suspected that Sir Travis’s mother had decided, after one or two incidents, that it was safer to keep her child isolated.  

She could have given him up for adoption instead, she thought, realising that she would probably have liked her, if they’d ever met.  But then, Gwen’s mother had never seriously considered giving her up, even after her social reputation began to suffer.  Maybe she’d underestimated her mother all along.  

The doorway was wide open, but guarded by two more policemen.  “The Inspector is awaiting you in the study,” one of them assured Lord Mycroft.  The other was staring at Gwen, as if he couldn’t quite grasp how she was wearing male clothing.  “Do you require an escort?”

“I have been here before,” Lord Mycroft said.  “But thank you for the offer.”

Gwen stared at his back as they walked inside.  If Lord Mycroft had been here ... Sir Travis had to have been important.  Maybe it made sense to have the meeting away from Whitehall, where a Sensitive would find it hard to avoid being overwhelmed by his surroundings, but if that had been a problem, why would Sir Travis be able to operate in India?  

She couldn't ask when there were so many policemen around, so she concentrated on looking around and studying the interior of the building.  It was surprisingly bare; she could see places on the walls where portraits had hung, before they had been taken down and stored somewhere.  There were definitely signs that someone had been trying to keep the place tidy, but it was clear that they were losing the fight.  Dust was everywhere, particularly in places few men would notice.  Maybe, Gwen told herself, Lady Mary’s lessons on how to run a household hadn't been wasted after all.  It was clear that Sir Travis hadn't been a married man.  

The stairs seemed reassuringly solid, even though half of the carpeting had been removed and the rest had ugly marks from where dozens of policemen had tramped up and down the stairs.  At the top, two doors had been forced open by the policemen, revealing rooms that were so dusty that it was clear that no one had been inside them for months, if not years.  The pieces of furniture in the opened rooms were covered with clothes, providing some protection against the ravages of time.  Somehow, Gwen doubted that they would still be in good condition anyway.  

“Sir Travis saw no need to use the rooms,” Lord Mycroft explained.  “They were closed off, one by one.”

He stopped outside a larger room and peered inside.  “Lestrade,” he said, by way of greeting.  “I trust that the crime scene remains undisturbed?”

“Yes, Your Lordship,” Lestrade said.  He looked understandably nervous; the last time aristocrats had started to die, he hadn't managed to catch the killer either.  But then, he wouldn't have wanted to catch a Master Magician without some heavy magical support.  “Sir Travis is lying right where he fell.”

Gwen braced herself as she stepped into the room.  Few people in London would have been comfortable allowing a woman to look at dead bodies; she still remembered the incredulous looks the policemen had thrown at her and Master Thomas when they’d thought that she wasn't looking at them.  Now, part of her was used to seeing corpses ... London had been littered with bodies by the time the Swing was over.  And it was part of her job.

Sir Travis looked to have been decent, she decided.  He was surprisingly pale for a man who had been in India and Turkey, but that might not have been surprising.  A Sensitive would prefer to avoid the sun where possible.  He was clearly healthy, wearing a thin nightshirt and trousers that would have allowed him to host meetings without bothering to get properly dressed.  There were some people – Lady Mary, for example – who would have complained about such informality, but a Sensitive could be counted upon to know his friends.  

“That’s the cause of death,” Lestrade said, pointing to the back of Sir Travis’s head.  Blood matted his hair, revealing a nasty crack in his skull.  Even a Healer couldn't have saved someone whose skull had been caved in.  Death, Gwen suspected, would have been effectively instant.  “Can you sense anything from the wound?”

Gwen gritted her teeth and knelt down beside the body.  Carefully, she opened her senses, bracing herself for a rush of memories and impressions burned onto the world by the trauma of Sir Travis’s death.  Instead, there was nothing ...

... apart from an alarmingly familiar scent.

“Wolfbane,” she said.  “Someone wanted to block a werewolf’s nose.”

“Yes,” Lestrade said.  “Anything else?”

Gwen hesitated.  “No,” she said, finally.  There should have been something, unless Sir Travis had been taken completely by surprise.  But if that were the case, how could someone have sneaked up on a Sensitive?  “I take it that he couldn't have committed suicide.”

Lestrade gave her an odd look.  “Suicides normally shoot themselves, or stab themselves, or take poison, or jump off bridges,” he said.  “I don’t see how he could have killed himself in such a manner.”

Gwen stood upright and looked around.  There were no signs of a struggle, apart from a broken object – a vase, she guessed, as there were several other intact vases in the room – that had been flung into the wall.  Could it have been the murder weapon?  She walked over and picked up one of the pieces, only to discover that it was almost eggshell-thin.  It would have shattered on a person’s skull, without inflicting any real damage.  

“I shall leave you to your task, Lady Gwen,” Lord Mycroft said.  He looked over at Lestrade.  “See to it that she gets all the help and support that she requires.”

“Of course, Your Lordship,” Lestrade said.  “But we have already arrested a suspect.”

Gwen blinked.  “A suspect?”

“The one other person in the house when Sir Travis met his untimely end,” Lestrade said.  “His maid.  She is currently in the kitchen, being interrogated ...”

“I think I should talk to her,” Gwen said, shortly.

“A good idea,” Lord Mycroft said.  “I shall see you in Whitehall, Lady Gwen.”

He bowed and left the room, twisting slightly so he could pass through the door.  Gwen watched him go, then looked back at Lestrade.  She could understand why he’d arrested the maid, but how could someone have harboured murderous intentions for so long and yet remained undetected by her master?  A Sensitive would know better than to treat a servant as part of the furniture ...

“Take me to her,” Gwen ordered.  

Lestrade bowed and led her out of the room.