The Royal Sorceress

(Free Sample)

Christopher Nuttall

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Blurb

Lady Gwendolyn Crichton was born to a family that only wanted her to marry a suitable man and bear his children.  But Gwen was also born with a magical talent that ensures that no aristocratic man would ever want to marry her.  Condemned to grow old and die alone, she is delighted when Master Thomas – the Royal Sorcerer – offers to make her his apprentice.  At last she can make something of herself.

But dangerous currents are threatening to tear London apart.  The gulf between rich and poor in the British Empire is growing wider and unrest is growing.  And a ruthless revolutionary with magic of his own is preparing a plot that will bring the British Empire to its knees.

And if Gwen doesn’t master her powers in time, he may just unleash a nightmare...

 Chapter One

“Are you paying attention to me?”

Lady Gwendolyn Crichton looked up at her tutor, deliberately allowing a languid expression to cross her face.  Henry Morrison was the latest of the tutors her mother had selected for her, a pimply-faced youth who had won a scholarship to Oxford – a scholarship that had paid for lessons and lodging, but very little else.  His desperation to make ends meet – and to afford to match the lifestyle of his richer contemporaries – had ensured that he’d accepted the position without asking too many questions.  He was the seventeenth tutor Gwen had endured since coming into her powers and, if she had anything to say about it, he wouldn't be the last.

“I am listening carefully,” she assured him, in the airy voice that irritated her father and drove her mother into fits of rage.  Poor Morrison was no match for her.  “Pray, continue.  I am agog.”

Morrison gave her a long look and then turned back to his book.  Gwen sighed inwardly.  It was a shame he wasn't more handsome, or she would have flirted with him in the certain knowledge that it would have impelled her mother to dismiss him at once.  But there were some things she couldn’t bring herself to do, even if the rewards seemed likely to be vast.  She would just have to find another way of convincing her mother to find another tutor.  It wouldn’t be the first time, after all.

“As we covered yesterday,” Morrison said, “the American rebels made a serious tactical error when they allowed their ragtag army to be cornered near New York.  They were unaware of the Talkers assigned to General Howe’s army, which allowed him to coordinate his activities on a scale the Americans could not begin to comprehend.  The traitor Washington’s army was trapped and forced to surrender, bringing the period of outright warfare in the Americas to an end.”

Gwen smiled and pretended to listen.  There was only one subject she wanted to study and Morrison, whatever his other qualities, was not permitted to teach it.  Indeed, as far as she could tell, he had no magic whatsoever.  He certainly didn’t know much about the history of magic, or how it had flourished since it was put to work in the service of George III.  Women, as a general rule, were not expected to study magic, let alone apply it.  As the eldest daughter of Lord Rudolph, Undersecretary of State for Foreign Affairs, Gwen’s course had been set a long time before she’d grown into maturity.  She would learn how to be a respectable aristocratic housewife, marry a man her parents chose for her and bear his children.  No one had anticipated that Gwen would develop magic, or that the rumours surrounding her would make it impossible to find a proper suitor.  At seventeen years old, she knew that she should already be married.

She ran a hand through her long golden hair, her lips thinning into a frown.  She didn’t want a husband, or a family; she wanted to learn about magic.  But it was not a career path for a respectable young woman, or so she had been told.  There was no way that her parents would allow her to set out on her own path.  They wanted her to serve them by marrying someone who could help her father’s career, or – failing that – to die an old maid.  Gwen couldn’t expect anything better from life, magic or no magic.  For a highly intelligent young woman, it promised to be a fate worse than death.

Morrison cleared his throat again.  “Please pay attention to me, Lady Gwen,” he said.  “I still have to cover the aftermath of the rebellion in the colonies.”

“I am paying attention to you,” Gwen said.  She gave him a smile that should have chilled his blood.  “You’re very…interesting to watch.”

“I just said that you had a leg growing out of your chest,” Morrison said, with some irritation.

“I thought you were being metaphorical,” Gwen said.  Her smile widened, to the point where Morrison looked away, unable to meet her gaze.  There was a reason Gwen hadn’t been allowed to go to school, even the expensive finishing schools that turned young ladies brains into mush.  Her father knew better than to turn her loose on other young ladies, or tutors who couldn’t devote all of their time to her.  “It was an interesting parable to the case of the Americans…”

“It was not,” Morrison said, hotly.  He was only a year or two older than her, but he was already schooled in not allowing his betters to irritate him.  It was just a shame that he hadn’t met anyone like Gwen before.  “You’re not paying attention to me.”

Gwen sighed inwardly and drew on her powers.  Her skin seemed to glow with bright light, before flames appeared around her, illuminating her body.  Morrison stumbled backwards in shock, one hand reaching for the decanter of water before he caught himself.  To someone utterly unfamiliar with magic, it would have looked if Gwen had spontaneously burst into flames.  The heat would scorch the chair, the table and Morrison himself if he got too close.

He stared at her for a long moment, and then almost ran out of the door.  Gwen watched him go, slowly pulling the magic back inside herself.  It wasn't his fault, she told herself, even though part of her felt a guilty thrill at how she’d scared him half to death.  He was just her mother’s tool in the endless battle to turn Gwen into a proper young lady, one who could make her mother proud.  But a life spent as the wife and helpmeet of a suitably aristocratic young man was Gwen’s worst nightmare. 

She pulled herself to her feet and headed over to the desk.  Morrison had left his books behind him and she opened one of them at random.  At least he hadn’t been that bad a history teacher.  History was also not a subject for young ladies, but her mother had reluctantly agreed to allow her to study it in exchange for an hour’s practice with the harp every day.  Music was the thing in High Society these days and a young woman who could play was assured of finding a husband, or so Lady Mary believed.  Gwen doubted that anyone could play the harp well enough for a prospective husband to overlook her other failings.

The book was written in dull tones, somehow sucking the excitement out of the Anglo-Spanish War of 1799, yet Gwen was midway through a description of the Battle of Cuba when the door burst open and Lady Mary stormed into the room.  Gwen’s mother had the same blonde hair as her daughter but, where Gwen was slim, her mother was alarmingly fat and energetic.  Lady Mary had always said that she’d married beneath herself, even if Lord Rudolph had been an up and coming politician in government.  The Undersecretary of State for Foreign Affairs wasn't exactly a powerless post.  

“Gwen,” her mother snapped.  “What did you do to poor Henry?”

Gwen sighed inwardly.  Her mother always brought out the worst in her.  “I was bored, mother,” she said, sardonically.  “His lessons were driving me insane.”

“And you will drive me insane,” her mother snapped back at her.  “How do you think you will get a good husband if you keep doing…that?”

“Most of the men you have introduced me to are cads of the first order,” Gwen said, imitating the tone her brother had used during his teenage years.  Like most aristocratic men, he’d spent them gambling, drinking and whoring – although Gwen wasn't supposed to know about the whoring.  At least her brother knew better than to try to lord it over her, no matter what the Church said about the duties of a sister to a brother.  “I would sooner marry a muckraker than any of those weak-chinned vagabonds with titles.”

Her mother purpled.  “And you’d be lucky if you married anyone,” she said, tartly.  “It is not right, in a respectable society, for a woman to practice magic.”

Gwen’s eyes flashed and she felt the familiar pain behind her eyes, the sense that her magic was flaring up and demanding an outlet.  She clamped down on it hard.  Her father might be able to tolerate her scaring the staff, but losing control and harming – or killing – her mother would be disastrous.  His reputation would be utterly destroyed.  If she’d had proper training, perhaps it would be easier to control her magic.  Young male magicians didn’t burn down houses by accident; they learned how to do it on purpose.

“I have no wish, my darling mother, to marry anyone,” she said, flatly.  “You may as well stop trying to shove me into the arms of any passing nobleman.  I will not marry him.”

Lady Mary glared down at her daughter.  “You seem to be unaware of your place in society,” she said.  “You were born into great wealth and power.  Your position means…”

“That I have to do what I am told,” Gwen said, dryly.  Her mother had said the same thing almost every day, ever since the day Gwen’s magic had first flared to life.  She’d been nine years old at the time, verging on womanhood.  Her life had turned upside down that day and would never be the same again.  “You would prefer me to be like Lady Cecelia?”

“She does do honour to her parents,” Lady Mary pointed out.

“Cecelia is the most boring person in the world,” Gwen said.  “All she talks about are horses and men, mainly the horses.  Her parents have bought her over a hundred horses and a small staff to take care of them.  And she can talk about nothing else!”

Her mother scowled.  “It is more womanlike to care about horses than…”

There was a knock on the door and Lady Mary stopped in mid-sentence.  The door opened, revealing a maid, one of the younger ones.  Like most of the servants in Crichton House, she had nowhere else to go.  Gwen’s reputation drove away servants who found employment elsewhere – but then, what could one expect from the lower classes?  They expected her to wear black and cackle to herself while drowning eggshells in a caldron, or having midnight orgies with the devil and his servants.  In some ways, Gwen envied the servants.  They might face Lady Mary’s temper or the back of her hand, if they displeased her, but at least they weren’t suffocated under her towering ambitions.

“Begging your pardon, Lady Mary, Lady Gwen, but Lord Randolph requests the pleasure of Lady Gwen’s company in his study,” the maid said.  She was short, with curly brown hair and eyes that refused to look up from the ground.  Gwen terrified her.  “He said it was urgent.”

“You’ve probably upset Henry so much he’s given in his notice,” Lady Mary said.  Her voice could have cut through glass.  “Go and see what your father wants, child.  I’ll start looking for a new tutor.”

Gwen nodded and left the room, heading down the long corridor to her father’s side of the house.  She rarely entered his study, if only because he flew into a rage at the slightest hint that anyone had tampered with his papers.  Gwen had spent many happy hours in the library as a child, but now that she wanted more advanced books to read – particularly books on magic – her father had refused to buy them for her.  And, as a woman, she wasn't allowed any resources of her own.  Whatever she inherited from her parents would go to her husband.  

She stopped outside her father’s door and hesitated.  Her father was a gentle man, outside his work, but she knew that he was growing increasingly exasperated with her.  God alone knew what he would say; he might even decide to marry her off to someone, with or without her consent.  Or perhaps he would do worse, if there was anything worse.  Shaking her head, she lifted her hand and knocked twice on the hard wooden door.  A moment later, her father’s voice bellowed for her to come in.

Her father’s study was a cosy room with a roaring fire, several shelves of books and a number of comfortable chairs.  He wasn't alone, she realised in shock, as she recognised Lord Mycroft, one of her father’s peers at work.  He was an immensely fat man with sharp, intelligent eyes, wearing a suit that failed to conceal his spectacular bulk.  Beside him, another man sat, wearing a black cape that covered his suit and holding a top hat in one hand.  He looked up at her as Gwen hastily bobbled a curtsey  and his blue eyes seemed to peer right into her very soul.  His pinched face and greying hair suggested that he was old enough to be her grandfather; for a moment, Gwen wondered if she was about to be introduced to her new husband.  The thought was absurd, she told herself firmly.  Her father wouldn’t have invited Lord Mycroft to anything that wasn’t strictly government-related.  It was strange enough seeing him outside his normal routine of office, his club and home.

Lord Randolph was as thin as his wife was fat, a hard-worker who had made himself rich and earned a peerage through careful speculation in the British shipping industry.  He had pioneered the use of airships to connect Britain with Europe, Russia and even the Ottoman Empire, a trade that had brought the British Empire closer together.  Lady Mary had the blood to ensure that her son rose to the very highest levels of society.  It had been a match made in heaven.  

“Gwen,” her father said.  He didn’t seem annoyed with her, which suggested that Morrison hadn’t managed to complain to her father or hand in his notice.  Perhaps he was just having a cup of tea with the cook.  Tea was good to settle one’s nerves.  “You know Lord Mycroft, of course” – Gwen nodded – “and this is Master Thomas, the Royal Sorcerer.”

Gwen stared at him.  She had had no formal training in magic, and she’d had to learn by herself, but even she had heard of the Royal Sorcerer.  The post belonged to the strongest magician of unimpeachable loyalty to the Crown and the British Empire.  Only two magicians had ever held the post, if she recalled correctly.  They’d both been men, of course.

“Charmed,” Master Thomas said.  He took Gwen’s hand – Gwen fancied there was a tingle of magic as his hand touched hers – and raised it to his lips, kissing the air just above her bare skin.  “I have wanted to meet you for quite some time.”

“Thank you, sir,” Gwen stumbled.  She rarely met anyone who had impressed her on first glance, even King George IV.  The Royal Sorcerer had wanted to meet her?  He could have visited at any time and Lady Mary would have been more than happy to play chaperone.  “The pleasure is mine.”

Lord Mycroft cleared his throat loudly.  “The Empire has something of a problem, Lady Gwen,” he said.  His voice was sharp, as penetrating as his blue eyes.  Lord Mycroft was a genius, a man who had made his own place in government.  He had no discernible vices, or indeed any interests at all outside making the government run smoothly.  “Our monopoly on magic has slipped over the past two decades.”

Gwen nodded, without speaking.  The French and Spanish had originally persecuted the magicians who had appeared within their borders, even though magic had given the British Empire some of its most stunning victories.  It was too much to hope that the Kings and Emperors of Europe – or Russia, or the Ottomans – would not eventually accept and even condone magic practiced in their name.  Britain might have ruled a vast empire, but magicians seemed to appear almost at random.  A slip in the magical monopoly would be disastrous.  At the very least, any war with the French or Spanish would then be fought on even terms.

“It was originally hoped that a new Master Magician would appear who could take Master Thomas’s place when he retired,” Lord Mycroft continued.  “At first, we had high hopes for one young magician who entered the service of the Crown, but matters came to a bad end.  Finding people with the required…qualifications is not easy, and of course not all of them are suitable for the most sensitive post in the country.  Master Thomas has convinced us that we must look outside the traditional boundaries for recruitment.”

“Lady Gwen,” Master Thomas said.  “We first became aware of your magic during that…unfortunate incident when you were barely nine years old.  Your parents were contacted by the Royal College and asked to keep an eye on any further development of magical potential.  It was seriously considered to offer you a chance to train with us, but various other events prevented us from making a formal offer until now.”

His sharp eyes met hers.  “I need an apprentice,” he said, flatly.  “Would you be interested in serving your country as the next Royal Sorcerer?”

“Royal Sorceress,” Lord Mycroft corrected.  

“I…” Gwen broke off, astonished.  She hadn’t dared hope that they would make an offer of training, let alone offer her a post in government.  If she succeeded Master Thomas, she would be the most powerful woman in Britain since Elizabeth I.  And there had been people who had whispered that Queen Elizabeth had been a witch, although they hadn’t dared whisper it very loudly.  “I would be honoured.”

Automatically, she glanced over at her father.  Lord Rudolph wouldn’t like the idea, she was sure, but if Lord Mycroft was involved then the Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool, would have a hand in it somewhere.  If he refused to allow Gwen to apprentice herself to the Royal Sorcerer, his career would hit a brick wall and he knew it.  Lady Mary would not be charmed with the idea of her daughter leaving home as an apprentice, rather than a wife, but what could she do?

“I have provisionally granted my consent,” her father said.  His voice was under tight control, but Gwen was sure that she detected a hint of…concern.  Lady Mary was not going to like it, not even slightly.  On the other hand, Gwen would be mixing with blue-blooded aristocratic magicians.  She might find a much better match among their set.  “Should you refuse, of course…?”

Gwen smiled.  Her father loved her, despite everything.  He hadn’t even taken a cane or his belt to her when she sent tutor after tutor fleeing in horror.  And he wouldn’t have allowed Lady Mary to marry her off to a man she detested.

“I won’t lie to you, Lady Gwen,” Master Thomas said, quietly.  “The position is difficult and very dangerous.  You will be pressed to the limit; you’ll have to learn magic quicker than anyone else your age.  We wouldn’t offer you the chance to learn if we didn’t think that you were capable of it, but we will understand if you reject the offer.”

Gwen didn’t hesitate.  “I would be honoured,” she repeated.  It was everything she had ever dared to dream of, when she allowed herself to consider a life without her social obligations.  “Thank you, sir, thank you!”

She found herself dancing out of the room, leaving the adults behind to talk through the details of her apprenticeship.  Her mother was waiting outside, looking angry enough to curdle milk.  Perhaps she had some way of listening to her father’s meetings, or perhaps the Butler had told her who had come to visit.

Gwen jumped in before her mother could say anything.  “Guess what, mother,” she said.  “I’m going to be the Royal Sorceress!”

Her mother fainted dead away.

 Chapter Two

“Cavendish Hall,” Master Thomas said, quietly.

Gwen peered through the window as the carriage came to a halt.  She saw iron railings, surrounding a small garden – and a massive black building, sitting only a short distance from the Houses of Parliament.  The statue positioned neatly in front of the building was of an elderly man, staring down at her with an expression of quiet amusement at the world.  She didn't need Master Thomas to identify him as Professor Cavendish, the man who had first put the study of magic on a scientific footing.  The British Empire owed its current supremacy to one man, and his disciples had never let anyone forget it.

The coachman opened the door and Gwen slipped through the hatch, jumping neatly down to the pavement.  Her mother had tried to convince her to wear one of her formal dresses, but Gwen had ignored her and donned a light blue dress that clung to her body in a faintly scandalous manner.  It also didn't billow up or hamper her when she tried to run.  She would have preferred the trousers she’d worn out in the country estate, where she’d learned to ride with her cousins, but that would have been a step too far.  Everyone knew what kind of woman wore trousers in civilised company, particularly the people who weren't supposed to know anything of the sort.

Outside, the air around the building seemed pregnant with possibility.  She turned her head from side to side as Master Thomas strode up to the gate, holding a silver-tipped cane in one hand.  The gate slid open without any visible means of locomotion, suggesting magic to her eyes.  He beckoned her to follow him up the path to the house and she did, pausing long enough to take a closer look at the statue as they reached it.  Professor Cavendish seemed to be smiling at her personally.

The doors in front of the building swung open as they approached, revealing a surprisingly ordinary lobby.  A handful of men wearing black suits were on guard, but apart from a handful of surprised looks at Gwen they showed no visible reaction to the new arrivals.  Gwen realised that they had to be trained magicians, ready to react at once to any hint of magical attack – or waiting for instructions from Master Thomas.  They all looked tough and capable, although she knew that that might be an act.  High Society taught the nobly born how to conceal their real feelings.

They passed through an archway into a long, gilded corridor.  It was lined with portraits, starting with the latest official portrait of King George.  A copy hung within every patriotic house in the land.  Another showed Field Marshal Arthur Wellesley, the first Duke of India, who was currently Commander-in-Chief of the British Army.  His many conquests in India – painting the subcontinent pink – had earned him far more than just a comfortable position in the very heart of Britain.  Gwen knew – from her mother’s gossip – that the Duke of India was tipped as a possible Prime Minster when Lord Liverpool finally shuffled off the mortal coil.

“David Kendrick,” Master Thomas said.  He pointed at one of the portraits with his cane.  “The very first magician to enter the service of the British Empire.”

Gwen halted in front of the picture, studying it.  Kendrick had been thin, almost painfully so; his eyes seemed sharp as knives within a pinched, almost unhealthy face.  And he’d been a magician...judging from what she knew, Kendrick would have seen service at New York, helping to coordinate the attack on the city that had destroyed the American rebels.  She wondered, just for a second, what he would have made of her.  Who knew what sort of man Kendrick had really been?

A thought struck her.  “I thought that Professor Cavendish was the first magician.”

“The Professor had no magical talents of his own,” Master Thomas said.  He seemed content to wait for her to finish studying the portrait before leading her onwards.  “He was merely the person who discovered the first magicians and outlined their powers in terms...that would be accepted by the King and the Church.  There may well have been others before Kendrick, but they passed unnoticed.”

“Or were burned at the stake,” Gwen said, remembering some of the horror stories from Spain.  The Inquisition had developed a nasty habit of burning witches, who were often lonely old ladies whom no one liked very much.  It was impossible to defend oneself against a charge of witchcraft – and anyone could denounce a person and be believed.  Even the worst excesses of Bloody Mary’s reign had never come close to matching the horror birthed in Spain.

“True,” Master Thomas agreed.  “One thing you will learn as you study magic is that most of what the common herd knows about magic is actually untrue.”

Gwen wanted him to expound upon that, but instead he strode off down the corridor and she had to move swiftly to keep up with him.  They walked past hundreds of paintings, ranging from the surrender of George Washington to a group portrait of the first magicians, until they reached a flight of stairs heading down into the basement.  Master Thomas strode down the stairs, which narrowed until they were barely wide enough for two people walking abreast.  The door at the bottom was locked, yet there was no keyhole.  Master Thomas placed his hand on the handle, closed his eyes for a long moment and the door clicked open.  Inside, there was a dark tunnel leading into the distance.

Master Thomas grinned at her, held one hand in the air and generated a ball of light.  Gwen watched, entranced.  She’d had some success generating light herself, but it had never been as steady as the light he produced from nowhere.  A silvery glow illuminated the bare walls of a passageway that seemed to lead on for miles, deep under London.  She looked up at him and saw him smiling.  It struck her that he loved showing off – and as Royal Sorcerer, he was not supposed to show off his powers.  Gwen wanted to tell him that she didn't mind, but she couldn't find the words.  Instead, she watched as the ball of light wandered away from his hand and led them down the corridor.  It was, she realised, a simple defence against intruders.  Only a magician could light his path down the passageway.

“Or someone with a lantern,” Master Thomas pointed out, when she asked him.  Gwen flushed.  She ought to know that magic wasn't everything.  “But no ordinary locksmith could get through the door.”

He looked at her for a long moment.  “I want you to concentrate here,” he said, as they left Cavendish Hall behind.  “Tell me what you feel.”

Gwen screwed up her face in concentration.  There was nothing, beyond a slightly musty atmosphere and a tingle in the air from the ball of light.  She kept walking...and felt it, suddenly.  An urge to turn and run, a sense that something was badly wrong, a sense that she could barely take another step forward...she pushed forward, gritting her teeth, but she slowly came to a halt.  An invisible field hung in the air, mocking her.  She couldn't go any further forward.

“I can't go any further,” she said.  Her emotions seemed to be spinning out of control.  She couldn't tell if there was something blocking her way, or if she was suddenly too terrified to go any further forward.  Only sheer bloody-mindedness kept her from running – that, and her reluctance to show weakness in front of Master Thomas.  She didn't want to convince him that she was just another weak female, someone who needed a man to hold her hand at all times.  “What is it?”

“A complex zone of emotional repulsion, infused into the tunnel,” Master Thomas said.  He took her hand and the sensation vanished instantly.  “Only twenty people have permission to enter the tunnel network.  Anyone who broke in without permission would find himself frozen and held until we discovered him.  Someone with powerful magic – like you – might be able to escape, but they wouldn't be able to actually break into the network.”

Gwen looked up at him.  “Are you sure?”

“There’s enough magic infused into this part of the network to repel almost anyone,” Master Thomas said.  “Even I would have great difficulty in escaping.”

They walked onwards, into the network.  The walls were no longer bare; they were lined with different paintings, some explicit enough to make Gwen blush.  Master Thomas ignored them magnificently as they reached a door set into the walls .  He tapped it with his cane.  A long moment passed and then the door slid open, revealing another flight of stairs.  Gwen rolled her eyes behind Master Thomas as he led the way up and through another door.  This one opened into a richly decorated living room.  A set of gold-edged chairs dominated the room, along with the inevitable portrait of the King.  This one looked to have been painted during the period when he’d been the Prince Regent, wearing a blonde wig and looking surprisingly thin.  The opposite wall held a painting of a rosebush.  Gwen wondered absently if it was the rosebush George III had attempted to put on the Privy Council.  It hadn't been long after that that his son had effectively assumed his powers.

She looked up at Master Thomas.  “Where are we?”

He smiled.  “Haven’t you guessed?”

The double doors at the far end of the room opened, revealing a dark-haired butler with a faintly contemptuous sneer on his face.  His brown eyes were surprisingly intelligent; they glanced once over Gwen, and then met Master Thomas’s eyes.  They exchanged a long look of wordless communication, and then the butler beckoned for them to follow him into the next room.  It was even more richly decorated than the last room, but it wasn't the decorations that caught her eye.  The man climbing to his feet was King George IV.

Gwen gaped at him, and then remembered her manners and went down on one knee.  She knew she wasn't supposed to look directly at the King – it had only been a few years since her coming out at the Palace, where she’d been introduced to High Society – but she couldn't help it.  King George was alarmingly fat, his hair – half-concealed by yet another wig – was thinning out, and his eyes lingered for several seconds too long on Gwen’s bodice.  His relationship with Queen Caroline hadn't been good before the Queen had died, Gwen recalled; Lady Mary had happily shared rumours about the King’s many illegitimate children and affairs, even though properly brought up young women weren't supposed to know anything about such matters.

“You may rise,” the King said.  His voice was surprisingly deep; Gwen recalled hearing that George IV was clever and could be remarkably well-informed on any subject, but he preferred to leave politics to his ministers and spend his time enjoying himself.  His ministers, many of whom would remember George’s father, probably preferred it that way.  “We welcome you into Our presence.”

He returned to his seat as Gwen rose, feeling oddly flustered.  The last time she’d seen the King had been when she’d been presented at Court.  There had been an entire ritual to learn, one that marked both her entry into High Society and her position as a potential bride.  Nothing had ever come of it, not when Gwen’s magic had been the subject of rumours long before she’d grown into a young woman.  She had never been taught how one should address the King in private.  The thought of a private interview with him would have sent her mother into hysterics.  Gwen wouldn't have been able to leave the house until her mother had briefed her on all aspects of Royal Protocol.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Master Thomas said, gravely.  Behind him, Gwen was suddenly aware of the butler’s presence, ready to advise his master if necessary.  “I am happy to report that Lady Gwen has accepted the offer we made to her.”

The King studied Gwen for a long moment.  Gwen almost flushed under his steady gaze.  “It is necessary that We have a Royal Sorcerer to handle the affairs of magic,” he said.  “The post requires qualifications and abilities beyond that of any normal magician.  Master Thomas has served Us well in this post for the last ten years and it is Our dearest wish that he should continue to serve Us in that manner for many years to come.”

Gwen said nothing.  She honestly didn't know what to say.

Master Thomas stepped forward.  “Your Majesty, I have no intention of dying in the very near future,” he said.  “However, Lady Gwen’s education in matters magical is sadly deficient and she will have to study hard to make up for lost time.  And then there is the danger of the French or Spanish raising their own corps of magicians.  They have not forgiven us for the sound thrashing we gave them over the last century.”

“Very true,” the King agreed.  “Lady Gwen – are you prepared to accept the responsibilities that go with the position of Royal Sorcerer?  You may find that you assume the position far sooner than anyone expected.”

Gwen swallowed, hard.  “Yes, Your Majesty,” she said.  She couldn't help feeling that she was in over her head, but it was too late to back out now.  “I am.”

The King rose to his feet.  “Then kneel,” he commanded, “and give me your hand.”

Gwen held out her hand and the King took it in a surprisingly strong grip.  “Do you, Lady Gwendolyn Crichton swear to serve Us all your days, to uphold the laws of Our Kingdom and defend it against Our enemies, whoever they may be?  Do you accept the position of Apprentice to the Royal Sorcerer, to do him honour and obey him in all matters, to learn from him and eventually take his place when God calls him home?”

“I do,” Gwen said.  It struck her suddenly that it reassembled a marriage ceremony and she had to fight down an insane urge to giggle.  “I swear before God.”

The King held her eyes for a long moment, and then he stepped back, releasing Gwen’s hand.  Gwen, unsure of what to do, remained on her knees.  There was a long pause and then Master Thomas stepped forward.  His large hand took Gwen’s and shook it, firmly.

“I accept you as my apprentice,” he said.  “I vow before God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost that I will educate you, clothe you and prepare you for the day when you take my place.”

He released Gwen and motioned her to her feet.  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said.  “We will begin training tomorrow.”

The King motioned Gwen forward and removed a ring from his finger.  “We hereby invest you with Our ring,” he said.  Gwen took the ring and held it.  It was too large to fit on her fingers.  “Should any question your fitness for the position, you may show them Our ring as an expression of the confidence We place in you.”

Gwen found herself unable to move until Master Thomas nudged her, gently.  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said.  “I will do you honour.”

“See that you do,” the King said.  “You are dismissed.”

Outside, Gwen found herself almost dizzy on her feet.  She had been rushed forward, without any time to think.  Master Thomas caught her and steadied her before she could fall over.  “If you wish some refreshments,” he said, “we can find something to drink in the Palace before we return to Cavendish Hall...”

“No, thank you,” Gwen said.  What she really wanted was a chance to sit down and reflect on the day’s events, but she had no idea how she could say that out loud.  The butler’s constant presence behind them was a reminder that anything they said would be reported back to the King.  Her mind caught up with him and she stopped.  “The Palace is connected to Cavendish Hall through the tunnels?”

“There are always broadsheet writers outside the gates,” Master Thomas said.  He sounded vaguely disgusted.  “We bring people in through the tunnel network if we don’t want them noticed and written up in the newspapers.”

He looked up as the butler passed him a sheaf of papers.  “Thank you, Edmund,” he said.  He led Gwen back to the stairwell and paused at the edge of the steps.  “Please advise your master that we will keep him informed of progress.”

Gwen said nothing until they were back in Cavendish Hall.  The magical barrier seemed to have vanished, or perhaps it only affected people who were trying to break into the Palace.  Master Thomas led her up four flights of stairs and into a large set of rooms.  One of them was dominated by a four-poster bed; the others with empty bookshelves, empty tables and one of the largest bathtubs Gwen had ever seen.  A maid who was busy cleaning was unceremoniously invited to leave the room.  Gwen stopped dead as she saw a set of familiar suitcases.  Her mother had already packed for her – or, more accurately, she’d ordered the family’s maids to pack for her.

“These are your rooms, Lady Gwen,” Master Thomas said.  “I suggest you spend some time resting and preparing yourself, then you can join us for dinner at six and then catch an early night.  Tomorrow is going to be a very busy day.”

“Yes, Master,” Gwen said.  It struck her suddenly that she’d sworn to obey him in all matters.  He had effectively taken her father’s authority over her for himself, simply by taking her as his apprentice.  It was far from uncommon among the lower orders, but for a nobly-born woman?  “Are we going to start learning about magic?”

“You have a great deal to learn,” Master Thomas said.  “But you’re very bright.  I’m sure you will pick it up in no time.”

Gwen could only hope that he was right.

 Chapter Three

Gwen’s first lesson on magic began early the next morning.

She hadn't been sure of what to expect, so she’d dressed herself as simply as she could, wearing the dress she’d worn when running outside in the country.  Breakfast had been a subdued affair, with a handful of magicians staring at her and wondering – clearly – what she’d done to deserve the position of apprentice to Master Thomas.  They’d all been male, she’d noted, all young.  She was going to be more isolated than she had thought.

Master Thomas had escorted her into the classroom personally.  It was somewhat disappointing to her eyes, a stone room with a set of tables, rough wooden chairs and a handful of maps hanging on the walls.  A bowl of water dominated one corner of the room, reminding her of the bowls they’d used to dunk for apples during one of her birthday parties, before she'd come into her magic.  The teacher, who had been introduced as Doctor Norwell, had looked equally unprepossessing.  He was a grey man wearing a grey suit and wig; one of those men who had been born old.  Master Thomas identified him as a theoretical magician, a person who studied magic, but without any actual talent of his own.  If his subject hadn't been so fascinating, Gwen knew that she would have started playing tricks on him within seconds.

“The first important thing to remember about magic,” Doctor Norwell started, in a fussily precise voice, “is that most of what the common folk know about magic is wrong.  More nonsense has been written about the subject of magic than any other subject, even though magic has only been seen as a subject of...ah, legitimate study since Professor Cavendish first documented its existence.  A popular book of magic, distributed despite the ban, states that one can summon demons by dancing naked in the forest at night.  That is, quite simply, untrue.  Many magicians come to study with us and wind up having to unlearn a great deal before they can proceed.”

He paused, long enough to fix Gwen with a pale stare, before continuing.  “The second important thing to remember about magic,” he said, “is that the study of magic is only in its infancy and there are a great many things that even the Royal College of Sorcerers doesn't know about how it works.  We have isolated a number of magical talents and attempted to put them to use serving the Crown.  There may be other talents as yet undiscovered.  There may be facets of the known talents that are poorly understood.  Every year, scientists attempt to find a unifying theory that would link all the talents together.  None of them have even come close to success.  Some talents seem simple and easy to understand.  Others make little sense.

“What we do know is that magical talents breed true.  The children of a magician or a person with an undeveloped magical talent will generally have magical talents of their own.  However, this seemed to follow no logical rules.  Theoretically, the child of a Mover and a Charmer should share both talents.  In practice, they tend to get one.”

Gwen frowned.  “Talents?”

Doctor Norwell scowled at her, clearly resenting the interruption.  “We have isolated ten different talents so far,” he said.  “There are persistent rumours of an eleventh talent, but despite careful research we have not been able to isolate it.  With only a handful of exceptions, each magician will have just one of the talents.  Their precise power level and skill will depend upon training.  Some people with magical potential simply never bother to develop their talents.”

“And a number,” Master Thomas put in, “may never discover that they have a talent.”

Doctor Norwell nodded.  “I shall begin with Blazers,” he said.  “Master Thomas, if you would...”

Master Thomas held up his hand.  A flame started to flicker over his skin, eventually becoming a pillar of light that danced over the ceiling before fading back into nothingness.  Gwen felt a tingle as she stared at the light, remembering how she’d summoned light and heat herself.  Master Thomas had far more skill than she’d ever been allowed to develop.

“Blazers manipulate energy,” Doctor Norwell said, flatly.  “All of their powers revolve around their particular talent.”

He nodded to Master Thomas.  “Infusers push magic into an inanimate object,” he said.  “The magic can be keyed to perform certain tasks, such as not permitting anyone to open a particular lock without the correct key.  Again, the magician needs extensive training in using his power before he can amount to anything.  Changers also push magic into an object, but instead of infusing the object with power they alter it at a molecular level.  As you can see...”

Master Thomas picked up a small block of wood from one of the tables and held it in front of Gwen’s face.  Before her eyes, the block of wood slowly transformed into a bar of gold.  He put it down in front of her and it started to resume its original shape and colour.  Gwen was almost disappointed.  A Changer could presumably create enough gold to keep himself in luxury for the rest of his life.

“Making it stable takes years of practice,” Master Thomas said.  Perhaps he’d had the same thought when he’d been trained himself.  “Which is lucky; we have too many problems with forged coins already.”

Doctor Norwell cleared his throat.  “Movers, as the name implies, move things,” he said.  Master Thomas gestured and the block of wood flew out of Gwen’s hands, circled the room twice and then dropped into the bowl of water with a splash.  “A Mover with enough power can literally fly, although only a handful have enough power to do it without losing control and falling to their deaths.  Do not try to practice without having someone in place to catch you.”

Gwen had to smile.  She’d often dreamed of riding on an airship and staring down at London below, but her father had never permitted her to fly on one of his craft.  Now, if she mastered the talent, she could fly on her own.  The thought was tantalising.  Whatever it took, she vowed silently, she would learn to fly.  

“A Talker can send messages from his mind to another person’s mind,” Doctor Norwell continued.  If he was aware of her thoughts, he showed no sign of it.  “The more powerful ones can actually read thoughts, although they can be delayed by someone with the mental discipline to shield their thoughts.  Talker Kendrick was the first proper magician and, as you will have heard, he and his fellow Talkers were the key to the great victory in the Americas.  There are now Talkers scattered around the globe, linking the British Empire together.”

As you can hear, Master Thomas said, directly into Gwen’s mind.  She jumped as if she had been stuck with a pin.  Just for a second, she felt helplessly naked and vulnerable, wondering if he could read her mind.  And then she realised that she could form a barrier with her thoughts and keep him out.  He tipped his hat to her by way of acknowledgement.

“Charmers can influence other people through their voices,” Doctor Norwell said.  “Master Thomas...”

“Gwen,” Master Thomas said, “why don’t you put both hands on your head?”

Gwen’s hands were already in motion before her mind had realised what was going on.  She fought to slow her treacherous hands, yet it was impossible.  Her hands rested against her head for a long moment and then the effect abruptly vanished.  She stared at him, honestly shocked.  A man with that kind of power could rule the world.

“Charm has its limits,” Doctor Norwell said, by way of explanation.  “You will discover that you can block the Charm, once you develop sufficient mental discipline.  The more complex the Charm, the more likely it is that someone will realise that something is wrong and start acting against the Charm.  A very powerful and subtle Charmer will be able to alter someone’s mind slowly, over the course of a few months, until their victim has no idea what has happened to him.  It may well be the most dangerous of the talents.”

“That’s a manner of opinion,” Master Thomas said.  “They can all be very dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“Seers and Sensors seem to go together, although we don’t fully understand the nature of their powers,” Doctor Norwell admitted.  “Seers can see any point on the planet through their mind’s eye, but the talent has limitations we have been unable to understand.  Sensors pick up flashes of information from people and objects they touch, sometimes including visions of the future.  We do know that such visions are often misleading, with a single exception.  It is said that each Sensor sees their own death perfectly – and that there is no way of avoiding the end.”

“That has never been confirmed,” Master Thomas said.

Doctor Norwell nodded.  “Weres can change their form from human to a specific animal,” he continued.  “A werewolf would move between human and wolf forms, sometimes with perfect control, sometimes with no control at all.  They can be incredibly dangerous as they combine wild animal ferocity with human intelligence.”

There was a long pause.  “I see,” Gwen said, finally.  There was really too much information, but she had been listening raptly.  The little demonstrations helped.  “And what is the tenth talent?”

Doctor Norwell looked at her, sharply.  “Necromancy is the darkest of the talents,” he concluded.  “Necromancers have the ability to manipulate the dead.  Some can reanimate dead bodies and send them out as revenants, others can summon up ghosts and ask them questions.  For once, the Vatican and the Church of England are in full agreement.  Necromancers are to be killed on sight.  They are simply too dangerous to be allowed to live.”

“Ten talents,” Gwen said, slowly.  She’d never thought of her magic as falling into separate talents.  And Master Thomas...  “What talents do you possess?”

“There are a very few individuals who possess all of the talents,” Master Thomas said.  “They’re the ones who can combine the talents into a single whole far more than the sum of their parts.  We call those magicians Masters and there have only ever been five of them in existence.  Two are dead, one is missing and presumed dead – and the last two are you and I.”

Gwen stared.  “I have all the talents?”

Doctor Norwell cleared his throat.  “Surely a person as intelligent as yourself would have noted that you were drawing on several different talents,” he said, sardonically.  “Your powers are not restricted to a single category.”

Gwen flushed.  Hardly anyone had called her intelligent before – or even expected her to be intelligent.  A succession of tutors had resented trying to teach a girl, particularly one who was expected to look pretty, attract a good husband and spend the rest of her life raising children.  Gwen knew that she was smarter than her brother, but she’d been warned never to make an issue of it.  It hardly mattered.  The rumours that had swirled around her had ensured that she would never find a husband her mother would consider acceptable.

“Very few people outside the Royal College know about the talents,” Master Thomas reminded him, gently.  “Like you said, most of what people know about magic is simply untrue – and Gwen was never even given the overview provided to government ministers without any actual talent themselves.”

He smiled at her.  “You and I will be spending many hours developing your talents,” he said.  “You will discover that people with a single talent are often better at using it than myself, even though I am a master.  When restricted to one talent, I often lose practice duels and tests against my opponent.  You will probably also discover that you are better with some talents than others.  I myself am capable with Blazing, Moving and Charming, but my talents for Changing and Infusing are far more limited.”

Gwen leaned forward.  “And what about Necromancy?”

Master Thomas stopped smiling.  “You will not be permitted to practice Necromancy,” he said, flatly.  “If you are caught using Necromancy – or even suspected of using Necromancy – you will be hauled in front of a Court and Charmed until you can hide nothing.  If the charges are sustained, you will be executed.  Necromancy is simply too dangerous to be used.”

Doctor Norwell cleared his throat.  “Only two years ago,” he said, “there was a revenant outbreak in Manchester.  The military had to be called in and the whole area had to be burned to the ground.  We believe the outbreak started by accident; a small child who had lost her grandmother accidentally came into her powers and reanimated the grandmother’s corpse.  And everything just spiralled out of control.”

“I understand,” Gwen said.  She winced, inwardly.  Had she ever come close to practicing Necromancy?  She might have stumbled into it through sheer ignorance.  “What happened to her?”

“Dead,” Master Thomas said, flatly.  “We do not suffer Necromancers to live.”

“But she didn't mean to raise a zombie horde,” Gwen protested.

“That doesn’t matter,” Doctor Norwell said, sharply.  “The use of such powers is forbidden under the Demonic Powers Act.  Anyone with proven Necromantic talents is to be executed.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause.  “And she might have vanished into the underground,” Master Thomas added.  “They certainly took some interest in the whole affair.”

Gwen looked up.  “The underground?”

“Officially, the only magicians permitted to practice are licensed by the Crown, either as part of the Royal Sorcerers Corps or the Royal College,” Master Thomas explained.  “Unofficially, there is a small underground of magicians who work for criminal interests or merely struggle to stay alive.  They tend to blur into the social liberal underground and its political wings, although so far they have never developed a coherent political philosophy  or a strong leader.  We scattered the rabble during the Year of Unrest and taught them a sharp lesson in knowing their place – and sticking to it.”

He looked up at her.  “One of the prime responsibilities of the Royal Sorcerer is upholding the laws of the land, created by the King and the Houses of Parliament.  When the established ordered is threatened, it is my – our – job to defend it.  You will find yourself having to make many hard choices in the course of your duty.”

Doctor Norwell nodded.  “With your consent, Lady Gwen, I will leave you with your Master,” he said.  “I cannot assist you with practical magic.”

Gwen watched him go and then looked back at Master Thomas, who had taken a chair opposite her.  “I heard about how you came into your magic,” he said.  “Have you practiced since then?”

“Yes,” Gwen said.  She didn't want to talk about what had happened that day.  “Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't.”

“Magic is often that way,” Master Thomas said.  “But you slipped into multiple talents, which would have confused anyone who didn't know how magic worked.  I want you to try and summon fire.  Be careful you don’t burn your clothes.”

Gwen held out one hand and summoned a blaze of fire.  It roared upwards towards the ceiling, but the air was cool.  Master Thomas reached forward and pushed his bare hand through the flames.  Gwen scowled as she concentrated.  The flames weren't real.  They were just illusions she’d summoned.

“Close your eyes,” Master Thomas instructed.  “Concentrate on the flames.  You want them to be hot and warm and hot and warm and...”

Gwen flinched backwards.  For a long moment, she had felt the flames burning in her mind.  A second later, a wave of heat had struck her and sent her tumbling backwards.  She opened her eyes and saw a roaring pillar of flame, so bright that she could barely look at it.  Her hand wasn't burning, but her arm seemed to be on fire...

She closed her hand and the flame vanished.  Her dress was smouldering; quickly, heedless of what her mother would say, she tore at her sleeves until they were bare.  The skin below was red, burned by the heat.  Her hand seemed as pale and perfect as ever.

“Blazers don’t burn themselves,” Master Thomas said, softly.  “Doctor Norwell thinks that it is caused by something in their minds, something that tells them not to harm themselves.  But they can set their clothes on fire and that does burn their skin.”  He nodded towards the bowl of water.  “You might want to cool yourself, and then we will try again.”

Two hours passed slowly.  Gwen’s dress was almost totally ruined, but she had managed to master the talent, at least to some degree.  Creating illusions was possible, Master Thomas assured her, yet it took years to become really skilful at creating ones that would fool an outside observer.  It was easier to summon fire, or beams of energy that could burn through wood and even metal.  The classroom’s lack of decoration was explained.  Young magicians, according to Master Thomas, frequently destroyed the room back to bare stone.

“Your Blazing will probably never be as good as a pure Blazer’s,” Master Thomas admitted.  “However, by combining Blazing and Moving, you will be able to shield yourself in a manner that no pure Blazer could match.  However, learning to combine both talents without actually thinking about it requires years of practice.  You’ll be working with some of the younger apprentices to develop your powers over the next few weeks.  I may also make you work with some of the more qualified magicians.  They, however, are likely to be more jealous of your position.”

Gwen nodded, soberly.  Some of the looks she had received from a few of the apprentices made sense, all of a sudden.  Of course none of them would be able to reach the highest position in the magical world, not when they could only master one talent.  And if a male Master arrived, Gwen was certain that she would be sent back home and told to marry well.

“Tell me something,” she said, suddenly.  “What happened to the other Masters?”

“I’ll tell you when you are ready to hear,” Master Thomas said.  He made a show of checking the pocket watch he wore in his waistcoat.  “For the moment, we will go for lunch.  Eat well, Lady Gwen.  There is an entire afternoon of hard work up ahead.”

 Chapter Four

“Would all passengers please return to their seats,” the stewardess requested.  “The airship is about to land.”

Jack leaned back in his chair as the airship began to descend over London.  From high above, the Thames was nothing more than a silver band running through the darkened city.  London had been sprawling out ever since the Romans had arrived and nothing, not war, famine or even death, would ever slow the city.  It had expanded out until the green fields of England were facing the risk of being turned into housing blocks or factories to feed the country’s endless appetite for manufactured goods.

He smiled at the stewardess as she paused in front of his chair.  The stewardess, no doubt used to far crasser behaviour from junior scions of the aristocracy – both English and French – ignored the smile, checked his belt and then strode on to the next passenger.  There was no better way to travel, if one had the money, than via airship.  Jack took another sip of his gin and tonic and allowed his eyes to rest on the stewardess’s behind as she swayed through the cabin.  There were times when playing the part of a junior aristocrat was far too easy.

A dull rumble ran through the craft as the engines pushed it down towards the landing field, far below.  Jack had to smile at the nervous expressions on some of his fellow passengers, the ones who had never flown by airship, but preferred the thought of flying to spending hours on a leaky boat and then a railway trip to London.  The direct flight from Paris to London only took around three hours and the food was extremely good.  It should have been, given what he’d paid for his ticket.  The vast majority of London’s inhabitants would be lucky if they could have afforded a trip to Blackpool or Dover, let alone a visit to France.

London grew closer as the airship settled to the ground.  Darkened blurs became buildings, the new high-rise tenements built by the city corporation to house the influx of labourers from the country.  The development of farming technology might have made it easier to raise crops and feed the animals, but it had pushed many thousands of farmers off the land.  They ended up travelling to London or one of the other cities, looking for employment and a better life.  Others went to the Americas, or Australia, or even the growing settlement in South Africa.  Few found a better life.

The hatch opened, allowing the air of London to slip into the airship.  After Paris, it was always a shock to smell London.  The stench of industry hung in the air, mocking the puny humans who had to breathe the stuff every day.  People got used to it quickly, Jack knew, but it was yet another reminder of how the world had changed over the last three decades.  Airships, railways and farming machinery had changed Britain forever.  And, as always, it was the poor who bore the brunt of the suffering imposed by the changes, for was there not pain in birth?  The price of the brave new world was paid by its people.

He followed the other passengers out of the airship and onto the landing field.  It had expanded since the last time he’d visited London, with several new airship hangers and more hackney cabs waiting for the wealthier passengers.  There was no security worthy of the name, but that wasn't a surprise.  Anyone who could afford the price of an airship ticket, the secret service had reasoned, wouldn’t be interested in overthrowing the established order.  There was far more security on the docks, where poorer folk from Europe came in hopes of finding a land of milk and honey.  They had been sadly deceived.

Jack waved to a cabbie and the man brought his horses over to meet him.  “The Bainbridge Hotel,” Jack said, as he pulled himself into the cab.  The horses neighed as their owner cracked the whip.  London’s cabbies competed ruthlessly for passengers, knowing that a wealthy passenger might tip them enough to allow them to feed their families better food.  “And don’t spare the whip.”

He settled back into his seat as the carriage cantered away from the airship field, into Greater London.  London had changed in some ways since he’d last visited; the glowing streetlight network had expanded and a handful of automobiles could be seen on the streets.  They said that one day everyone in England would own an automobile, but Jack had his doubts.  The best the industrial geniuses had been able to produce were cranky, prone to breaking down and incredibly expensive to run.  Horses were far more reliable, even if they did have a habit of leaving their waste on the cobblestones.  It was easier to pay the poor to clean the streets than it was to iron the bugs out of the automobiles.

London had its rich areas and its poorer areas, just like any other city in Europe.  The Bainbridge Hotel was right on the verge of the middle-class area, rich enough to be respectable, but too poor to be taken entirely seriously.  Jack had made the booking through the services of the telegraph, trusting that the Bainbridge Hotel wouldn’t ask too many questions.  They thought he was a poor nobleman, with a name, a title and little else.  There were hundreds of second sons who had the right to be called noblemen, but stood to inherit little or nothing from their fathers.  And there were plenty of little accidents who had been given a proper education by their fathers, even if they were never acknowledged as noble-born children.  

Jack slipped out of the cab, tipped the cabbie just enough to be sure that the man wouldn’t remember him, and strode into the hotel as if he owned the place.  As he had expected, the manager was more than happy to take his money without asking too many questions; the Bainbridge had a reputation for discretion that would have done credit to a nun.  Jack suspected that some of the wealthier segments of London society used it as a base for activities that would draw the disapproval of their wives and the Church.  The last thing they would want would be a scandal that would call their discretion into question.  In the unlikely event of the Bow Street Runners coming around to ask questions, the manager would have seen nothing and heard less.  

The room was as he had expected; a simple bed, a small washbasin and a tiny mirror hanging on one wall.  He glanced out of the window and smiled to himself; the manager had given him the room that stared towards one of the poorest sections of the city.  The haze of smog that hung over London seemed to be heavier over the East End.  It was probably an optical illusion, Jack told himself firmly.  Even the worst of the industrialists wouldn’t deliberately set out to poison the poor and helpless.  It was merely a by-product of their industries.

Shaking his head, he lay back on the bed and concentrated.  A capable magician could detect when a Seer was looking at him, even though the Seer might be on the other side of the world.  Jack had a profound respect for the Seers in the Royal Sorcerers Corps and knew that if they believed him to be still alive they would have been monitoring him almost constantly.  There was no tingle suggesting an invisible presence, no sense that he wasn't quite alone.  Out of habit, he checked the room for knotholes and other ways he could be watched, before he placed his case on the bed and opened it with great care.  If anyone else had tried to open it without his permission it would have been the last thing they ever did.  There were items in his case that would have aroused suspicions in even the stupidest Bow Street Runner.

The two fine suits of clothes would have passed without comment.  Under them, Jack had hidden a far less reputable outfit, one that would only be worn by someone who had no money to buy something better.  He donned it quickly and glanced in the mirror, smiling at his appearance.  Anyone who looked at him on the streets would see a common labourer, perhaps one of the Irishmen who had fled to England to escape the famine and seek daily work as builders and carriers.  The Irish were often hated by the poorer Englishmen, who believed that the Irish took their jobs and money.  They had a point, Jack knew; the only thing that motivated the rich was cheap labour.

Outside, the night was slowly falling over London.  Jack donned a walking cape that would hide his outfit and then stepped outside into the corridor.  As he had expected, it ended with yet another window, staring down into the courtyard behind the hotel.  Jack opened the window, pulled his magic around him, and jumped down to the cobblestones.  Anyone watching would have seen him fall several meters without being hurt.  It was astonishing what magic could do.

He walked into an alleyway a gentleman, wearing his cloak, and walked out of the other end a labourer, carrying the cloak under one arm.  It wouldn’t arouse suspicion; anyone who saw it would think that it was a blanket, like the one carried by many homeless men who had found themselves trapped in London.  Jack’s lips twitched as he smelt the stench of alcohol and tobacco smoke outside a pub.  The working men would be inside, having a few pints before they returned home to their wives.  Their pay packets, meagre as they were, would be depleted quite a bit before they left the pub.  Jack knew that their children would be lucky to survive the coming winter.  It had only been last year that London had suffered an outbreak of cholera and hundreds of the urban poor had died.  

The streets were still alive with people, although many of the shops were closing before the drunkards started pouring out of the pubs.  He saw a little girl selling matches and another girl selling flowers and felt his heart break, just before he saw what had to be their older sister, who was selling herself.  The poor often had no recourse but to sell their children into slavery, or worse.  Few of them could be proud when they lived permanently on the edge of starvation.  He caught sight of a black-clad preacher and scowled inwardly.  The Church railed against the desperate straits of the poor, but it rarely did anything effective to help.  And its preachers claimed tithes from those who could scarcely afford to pay.

He wandered down the darkest streets, waiting for what he knew would happen.  There was no point in going to any of the addresses he’d known last time he’d been in London.  His friends would be long gone.  The Bow Street Runners turned a blind eye to prostitution, gambling and drinking – at least when the Church wasn't breathing down their necks – but they broke up socialist meetings with great energy.  His old friends would be well hidden.  It didn’t matter that much.  He would find someone who would know where they were, or knew someone who would know.  It was very difficult to hide in London if one wanted to run a criminal or underground enterprise.

The touch, when it came, was so light that he would have missed it altogether if he hadn’t been waiting for it.  His hand snapped down and caught the hand of a grubby little street urchin who had been trying to pick his pocket – and the wallet Jack had placed inside, knowing that it would tempt someone to try his luck.  The child struggled against his grip, but couldn’t break free as Jack hauled him into the alleyway.  No one would notice, or care if they did.  There were hundreds of children running wild on London’s streets.  The lucky ones died early, before they matured.

He used a touch of magic as he gripped the boy’s shirt and lifted him into the air.  It would seem an impressive demonstration of strength to anyone without the ability to sense magic.  The child kicked and struggled, but it was useless.  Up close, he stank of the streets, a stench that would put the hardiest of souls to flight.  It was self-protection as much as anything else, but it still disgusted him.  How could anyone live like that?

The boy – no; he looked at the face and realised that he was holding a girl, dressed as a boy – stopped struggling and stared at him.  Jack read hopelessness in her gaze, the awareness that her luck had run out.  If he handed her over to the Bow Street Runners, she would be condemned to transportation as convict labour, if she were lucky.  And there were people who had far darker ideas about what to do with a young girl.  She couldn’t be older than eight, perhaps nine, but her eyes were already old.  Jack knew she would be lucky to survive into her teens.

“You tried to steal from me,” he said, evenly.

“I didn’t mean to, master,” the girl pleaded.  Her attempt at producing a masculine voice wasn’t perfect, but it would probably fool someone in the dark.  It had been a long time since Jack had visited the places where the street children slept, but he knew that they could be a very nasty place for a young girl.  No one could be trusted on the streets.  “Let me go and I won’t steal from you again…I swear I won’t…”

“Be quiet,” Jack said, in the same even tone.  “What is your name, young lady?”

The girl’s face, already pale, became almost bloodless as she realised he knew her sex.  “Olivia, sir,” she said.  “I didn’t know you were a spark or a toffee; I didn’t know…”

Jack smiled, inwardly.  Spark was street-slang for magician; toffee was street-slang for upper-class personage, slumming in the poorer areas of the city for pleasures that were denied even to people of their lofty birth.  If the girl had identified him as a magician, it suggested some magical talent of her own.  It was almost a shame that the Royal Sorcerers Corps hadn’t found her.  She would have been brainwashed into serving the order that kept the lower classes in their place, but at least she would have enough to eat.

“I’m looking for Mistress Lucy,” Jack said.  It was a name from the past, but unless he was very much mistaken she would still be alive and thriving within the underworld.  Any woman in a position of power had to be stronger, tougher and more ruthless than any of her male counterparts.  The female of the species was far more deadly than the male.  “Do you know where she stays?”

He allowed some Charm to slip into his voice.  “You will take me to where she stays,” he said, as the girl nodded frantically.  “Don’t try to run away, or I’ll turn you into a rat.”

The girl’s eyes went wide, in surprise and fear, and then she nodded.  “Follow me, mister,” she said.  “I won’t lead you wrong.”

Jack followed her, shaking his head inwardly at how the locals didn’t seem to take any notice of them.  But life on the streets was hard; no one would risk their lives to save a street child who would steal from them the moment their backs were turned.  Even the handful of preachers who came down into the maze of houses, bridges and slums would turn their backs on a street child.  And once she couldn’t maintain her manly guise, she’d probably be corralled by a pimp or forced into the brothels.  They’d use her up and then throw her out to die.  There was no mercy for the poor in London.

The Rookery was more complex than he remembered.  It had started life as a set of houses and apartments, but thousands of immigrants from the countryside had taken over and turned it into a mishmash of tiny streets and makeshift houses.  The Bow Street Runners wouldn’t come into the Rookery without heavy numbers or military support, which meant in practice that the Rookery was controlled by a shifting network of criminal lords.  He smiled to himself as he caught sight of a Chinese man striding past, the people moving out of his way to allow him to pass.  The Tongs were known for brutally enforcing their will and their smuggling enterprises were legendary.  Jack had used the Chinese community the last time he’d been in London, even though he disliked them on general principles.  They always seemed to be laughing at him behind their inscrutable eyes.

They are human too, he reminded himself firmly, as the girl stopped outside an unmarked house that seemed to be in remarkably good condition.  The sound of laughter and male grunting from inside confirmed that it was a brothel, even before Olivia started to back away, making motions and gestures that seemed to imply that Mistress Lucy was inside.  Jack caught her arm before she could start running and pulled her with him as he opened the door.  Inside, a line of lovely young women waited for him, trying to look alluring.  Jack wouldn’t have been tempted even if he’d had time.  He knew just how badly they had been used, even if Mistress Lucy treated them as more than cattle.

“Here,” he said.  He produced a gold coin from his pouch – not his wallet, which had nothing more than a few metal filings to imitate money – and gave it to the girl.  Her eyes went wide; the chances were that it was more money than she’d had in her entire life.  Given that he’d charmed her, it was a fair recompense.  “Wait for me here.  Once I have finished, I may have other tasks for you.”

He smiled as one of the young women finally approached.  Her face suggested a mixture of English and Negro in her blood, part of the great melting pot of lower-class London.  She would have been pretty if her eyes hadn’t been so tired, if she hadn’t known the truth about her existence before she’d grown old enough to try to make her own way in the world.

“Like what you see, sir?”  She asked.  Her voice was light and breathy.  “We have others, far more exotic, if you are a real connoisseur…”

“I’m here to see Mistress Lucy,” Jack said, cutting her up.  He allowed a little more Charm to slip into his voice.  “I’m an old friend.  Take me to her at once.”

“Well, well,” a new voice said.  “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Jack looked up and smiled.  “Lucy,” he said.  “It is simply lovely to see you again.”

“I’ll give you lovely,” Lucy said.  She was older than he remembered.  “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to overthrow the government,” Jack said, cheerfully.  “Isn’t that a lovely idea?”

 Chapter Five

Gwen rose to her feet as Cannock stepped into the room.  Master Thomas had told her that the next series of magical lessons would be coming from her fellow apprentices, who were more skilled with their individual powers than he was with each of them.  It wasn't something that entirely pleased her – and it was clear, looking at him, that Cannock bitterly resented having to teach anyone.  He would graduate in June and start serving the British Empire in foreign parts.  Teaching a young lady wasn't among his ambitions.

He was a short young man with messy dark hair and darker eyes, barely old enough to go dancing on his own.  Gwen guessed, from the way his eyes lingered on her chest for just a second or two longer than necessary, that he’d already discovered the pleasures of drinking and wenching, just like her brother.  It was a double standard – men could enjoy themselves with whores, women had to be chaste – but it wasn't one she intended to challenge.  The thought of sharing her body with hundreds of men was horrifying.  If she ever found a husband, someone she could love, perhaps she would feel differently about it.

“Thank you for coming,” Gwen said, as graciously as she could.  She had already learned that the Royal College and Royal Sorcerers Corps judged by talent, rather than noble blood, but even they couldn’t avoid it entirely.  Cannock was the younger son of the Duke of Essex and a bad word to his father could lead to unpleasant repercussions for the Royal College.  At least he’d earned his awards through hard work and endless practice.  She didn’t have to worry that he’d purchased his commission.  “I am very pleased to meet you.”

Cannock gave her a half-bow, rather than kissing her hand.  Gwen was rather pleased about that, although she knew that he had intended it as a subtle insult.  Kissing a woman’s hand was a way to show respect; a bow suggested a certain reserve.  The way his eyes kept dancing over her worried her, even though part of her mind found it amusing.  Men never seemed to change.  At least a magician from the Royal College wouldn’t find her powers intimidating…or perhaps they would.  They had spent years practicing to rise in the ranks and Gwen had succeeded merely through an accident of birth.

“Moving is one of the simplest talents and yet it is the most complex,” Cannock said, at once.  His voice was flat, almost dead.  Someone had twisted his arm quite badly – Gwen hoped that that was metaphorical – to force him to teach Gwen his talent.  “It basically consists of using your mind to move objects about without actually touching them physically.  The more practiced you become at using the talent, the more you will be able to do with it.  An experienced Mover can unpick a lock, or even fly through the air.  A really capable Mover will be able to manipulate objects without maintaining eye contact.”

He shrugged, impatiently.  “It obviously takes more energy to move heavier objects,” he said.  “Movers deplete themselves quite rapidly; if you happen to be flying, get down on the ground the moment you feel yourself tiring.  You will run out of energy quicker than you will believe possible and then you will fall.  A number of Movers have died through hitting the ground at great speed.”

Gwen frowned, but nodded.  A moment later, she felt an uncomfortable itching under her buttocks.  The feeling spread rapidly until she found herself being picked up by an unseen force and lifted into the air.  She could feel the magic tingling all around her, but it didn’t seem to be part of her.  The whole feeling was vaguely uncomfortable, even unpleasant. Cannock didn’t seem to notice her distaste, but she knew it could be an act.  She resolved not to show any signs of distress.

“A skilled Mover can talk as well as holding something in the air,” Cannock said.  Gwen felt the magic shifting and she found herself gliding over towards the rear of the room.  It struck her suddenly that all he had to do was alter her poise a little and he would be able to see right up her skirt.  She blushed furiously and then giggled, despite herself.  Cannock gave her a puzzled look and started to lower her to the floor.  “The more complex the manipulation, the more concentration it requires to actually carry it out without losing control.”

Gwen felt the hard stone floor under her legs.  The force holding her upright vanished abruptly and she had to catch hold of one of the tables to prevent her from falling over backwards.  She saw a trace of amusement in Cannock’s eyes and silently vowed revenge at the earliest possible moment.  He’d probably enjoyed watching her float under his control.  She walked back to the table she’d been seated at and sat down, daring him to try to pick her up again.

“Movers, once they have mastered basic manipulation, practice in the hall by playing Mover Ball,” Cannock continued.  He was definitely smirking now.  “Mover Ball is not unlike the games played by children on the streets, but the balls are thrown though the air by magic, rather than a person’s hands.  To be hit by a ball, or to be caught touching it with one’s bare hands, is grounds for instant banishment from the game.”

Gwen smiled.  “And the objective is to be the last person on the field?”

“Quite,” Cannock said.  “People without the right talent can still play by hurling balls at the talented.  They are forced to catch them or deflect them with their magic, or risk losing and being mocked by their peers.”

He reached out one hand and held it over the bowl of water.  There was a shimmer of magic and a ball of water floated out of the bowl and hovered in the air.  “And there is another trick we play all the time,” Cannock added.  “We throw water at each other.”

Before Gwen could react, the ball of water flew right at her face.  She held up her hands like lightning and the ball of water seemed to explode, drops of water flying everywhere.  Enough touched her face and clothes to convince her that it was freezing cold – and that she would have to get some more practical clothes.  Cannock looked surprised that she’d even managed to block it – he’d wanted to drench her, she realised – but recovered quickly.  Absently, she wondered how long he’d taken to master his single talent.

“Not too bad,” Cannock said.  “Do you know what you did?”

Gwen shook her head.  “You hit my ball with a blast of pure motion,” he said.  “You weren't particularly subtle – later, you will learn to catch the water and throw it back at me – but you prevented me from hitting you with the water.  Well done.”

“Thank you,” Gwen said, tartly.  Her mother would not have approved.  “And why do we use water?”

Cannock grinned, unpleasantly.  “Because when we throw stones or something material, someone gets hurt,” he said.  “The worst that can happen here is that we both end up drenched.  Let’s see, shall we?”

He pulled a second ball of water out of the bowl and launched it at Gwen.  She tried to block it, but this time the ball resisted her efforts.  For a moment, the ball of water seemed to flatten into a sheet of water hanging in the air, and then it flew right towards her and smashed into her face.  Gwen gasped in shock as the water slid down her front and soaked her dress.  Powered by anger, she reached out towards the bowl herself and yanked at the water.  An entire stream of water rose out of the bowl and came down on Cannock, who held up his hand to deflect it.  It seemed to hang in the air for a long moment, and then Cannock pushed it away.  The water shattered into droplets that went everywhere, drenching the walls.  He laughed and picked up the bowl.  It was empty.

“I think we need to work on control,” he said, as he turned one of the taps and refilled the bowl.  “You are very blunt with your power, very crude.  A more experienced Mover could have drenched me while I was holding off your stream of water.”

Gwen flushed, feeling cold water trickling down her bodice.  She hadn’t felt so cold since she’d taken an unplanned dip in the waters down near their country home.  Cannock’s eyes seemed to light on her for a second and she flushed as she realised that her dress was clinging to her skin.  He’d done that purposefully, or her name wasn't Gwen.  She ground her teeth as he placed the bowl back on the table behind him and – without any gestures – pulled three balls of water into the air.  Gwen was impressed as they spun around his head, and then flew at her.  This time, she was ready; one of the balls shattered, while the other two flew back at Cannock.  He caught one and tossed it back at Gwen, but the other smashed into his shirt.  Gwen had to smile at his expression, just before the final ball of water drenched her hair.  The thought of what her mother would have said, if she’d seen her, made her giggle.  Lady Mary would not have been amused.

They practiced for nearly an hour, until Gwen felt her head beginning to throb.  “Time to stop for the day,” Cannock said, seriously.  He sounded more concerned about her than she’d expected.  But then, if anything went badly wrong, Master Thomas would have thrashed him to within an inch of his life.  “You don’t want to push your talent too far.”

Gwen nodded.  She disliked headaches at the best of times.  “Thank you,” she said.  “I’ll just get changed and then I’ll join you for lunch.”

Back in her rooms, she glanced at herself in the mirror and burst out laughing.  Her sodden dress was clinging to her skin, her hair was a dreadful mess and her skin was covered in droplets of water.  Pulling the dress off and dumping it on the floor was not particularly easy – and when she’d done so, she discovered that her undergarments had been soaked as well.  The dress was almost completely ruined, even though it had been designed for rougher use than her ballroom dresses, and she made a mental note to insist on wearing trousers.  It might not be acceptable in polite society for women to wear trousers, but the Crichton Family weren't so rich that they could afford to keep buying new dresses.  Conspicuous consumption wasn't the kind of reputation a reputable older family wished to develop.

She wiped herself with a towel, donned a light-green dress that would be suitable for an afternoon spent in the library, and headed down the stairs for lunch.  The lunches in Cavendish Hall were served at noon precisely, with anyone who was late – according to Master Thomas – forced to dine out, unless they had a very good excuse.  At least the food was good, although it was a curious mixture of typically British foods and imported tastes from the Empire.  Some of the student magicians would be going to India or Africa or even the Americas when they graduated and they would have to learn to eat native cuisine.  The Colonial Service frowned on officers who refused to eat local foods, at least outside the network of government officers.  It also frowned on British officers who formed liaisons with the local womenfolk, but Gwen had heard enough whispers from relatives of those who had served in India to know that such regulations were tacitly ignored.

The table wasn't as crowded as she had expected.  Master Thomas and several of the senior tutors hadn’t come to dine, which was surprising.  A handful of students – including Cannock - sat at the table, tucking into the soup that formed the first course.  Anyone who failed to arrive by the time the maids started removing the soup would have to beg and plead to receive a share of roast lamb or beef.  Gwen took a seat, accepted a bowl of soup and bread from one of the maids, and started to sip at it.  The cooks had produced a rather surprisingly spicy carrot soup.

She glanced up sharply as she felt the first tingle of magic surrounding her.  No one seemed to be looking at her; in fact, the group of students seemed to be looking away from Gwen.  The magic faded away, and then reappeared, right behind her.  Gwen frowned and concentrated, trying to understand what it was.  A moment later, she felt a sharp pinch on her rear end.  There was no one behind her, which meant that someone was using magic to pinch her from a distance.  She felt a hot flash of anger as she glared at Cannock and his friends, all of whom were clearly fighting to control the urge to burst into giggles.  They could play their tricks on the maids if they liked – she’d already heard that Cavendish Hall had a higher turnover of servants than her father’s house – but they couldn't play them on her.  A second pinch made her jump, followed rapidly by a third.  It felt as if someone was crawling over her body, pinching away at exposed flesh.

“Stop it,” she ordered.  The students burst into giggles, followed by another series of pinches.  Gwen yelped as she felt her buttocks stinging in pain.  “Stop it!”

Magic flared through her and the soup bowls in front of the students seemed to explode, showering them in hot soup.  It was their turn to yelp in shock, just as another wave of magic – only partly under Gwen’s control – slammed into the tureen and tipped it over onto the table.  A flood of hot soup spread across the tablecloth and into their laps.  She wanted to giggle herself as they jumped up, the stain spreading over their clean trousers, but she was burning with rage.  A hot prickling behind her eyes seemed to be overpowering her.  Cannock turned and glared at her, no longer so amused now he was dripping with soup.  He used his magic to pick up the bread and throw it at her.  Gwen caught it with her own magic and knocked it back at him, only to see it come apart as the other students – two of whom were clearly Movers themselves – caught it and shoved it at her.  Tiny pieces of bread slashed into her skin, leaving her feeling bruised and sore.  Angrily, she sent her own magic billowing out of control across the table, picking up spilled soup, tableware and even part of the table and hurling it at them.  Cannock ducked in alarm as a knife narrowly missed him by inches.  Maids and kitchen staff scattered, screaming in panic as the magic duel ran right out of control.  

Gwen felt Cannock’s magic forming around her and pushed it back, slamming her will directly against his.  For a moment, she held her own, but his greater experience and skill told and he broke through her defences.   A wave of magic slapped into her and sent her staggering backwards; she hit the floor hard enough to hurt as the table started to disintegrate around her.  Magic flared over her fingers, slipping from Moving to Blazing, enough magic to burn right through Cannock.  If she was fighting for her life.

“ENOUGH,” a voice said.  “STOP FIGHTING, NOW!”

There was enough Charm in the voice to control an entire crowd of angry magicians.  Gwen felt her rage dissipate slowly, the magic she had raised to defend herself fading away.  Master Thomas was coming down the long flight of stairs, his face as angry as anyone else Gwen had ever seen.  It struck her, suddenly, that she was no longer at home.  If he felt that she had grossly overreacted to their provocation, she was likely to be in real trouble.  Her father had let her run wild, but Master Thomas believed in discipline.  It was the key to effective magic.

“I do not expect to see student magicians fighting one another with the food,” he said, sharply.  Cannock and his friends looked as if they wished to be somewhere – anywhere – else.  Gwen, for once, found herself in agreement with them.  Her head was starting to pound again, suggesting that she might have overreached herself.  How much Moving could a person do before they risked permanent damage?  “I would insist on none of you having any lunch, except you will have exhausted yourself through your silly fighting.”

For the first time, Gwen took in the scene before him.  The dining hall was wrecked, with soup and bread scattered everywhere.  The massive oak table had been smashed, while the soup was soaking into the carpet, paintings had been torn from the walls and a set of cutlery was embedded in the stonework.  It would take hours, perhaps days, for the servants to clear up the mess, if they didn't give their notice as a body when they recovered from their hysterics.  She felt a flash of shame, despite the wooziness that threatened to send her to her knees.  They hadn't meant to tear the room apart during their fight.

“You will all spend the afternoon cleaning up the mess,” Master Thomas decreed.  His voice was flat, perfectly controlled.  It was clear that any argument would only make the punishment worse. “You have disgraced yourselves in front of your tutors.”

He stepped forward, the tip of his cane tapping against the stairwell.  “Control and discipline are the keys to your magic,” he said.  “I do not want to see any of you lose control, not again.  Losing control could mean that someone – perhaps someone innocent – gets hurt.  I will not tolerate that on my watch.”

It took nearly four hours to clean up the mess.  The table was beyond repair – the intersection of two different magical forces had shattered its structure – and had to be sent to the bonfires.  Gwen found herself scrubbing the floor for the first time in her life, along with a handful of students who had probably never done a day’s real work in their lives.  It was a bitter insight into how the servants had felt during her temper tantrums as a young child, with the added threat of malicious magic for those that worked at Cavendish Hall.  Afterwards, she had to change again.  The green dress had been totally ruined.

She vowed, in the aftermath, that she wouldn't lose control again.  The results, she decided, were too dangerous.  Magic was far from safe.