Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3) (29 page)

Beside them, Sir Sidney ate his food, his face set in an unreadable mask. He had to be using mental discipline, Gwen realised, knowing that both Simone and Russian Talkers were in the room. She wanted, desperately, to talk to the older man, to ask his advice, but she knew that was impossible. Lady Standish would react badly if Gwen was caught with Sir Sidney a second time, particularly after Gwen had been ‘disciplined’ by Romulus. The last thing she needed, right now, was to be caught doing something indecent. Gritting her teeth, she looked away from Sir Sidney towards the head of the table.

The Tsar himself lounged on his throne, staring down at his food with a curiously deranged expression on his face. Gwen couldn’t help wondering if he were drugged, or under some form of magical influence; he seemed to verge between the deepest depression and an oddly childlike enthusiasm, as if he were waiting for Christmas Day. His bodyguard of dark-clad men had been reinforced with a pair of men in monkish robes, one of whom whispered to the Tsar from time to time. Were they his bodyguards, Gwen wondered, or his masters? But when she reached out with her senses, all she picked up was mental distortion aimed at Simone and the other Talkers. The Russians were determined to ensure that no one learned anything through magic.

Romulus poked her arm, making her jump. “I’ve never seen His Lordship so concerned,” he muttered. “And Her Ladyship is picking up on it too.”

Gwen followed his gaze. Lady Standish was talking – too loudly – to Simone, who looked torn between boredom and amusement. Gwen had no idea of Simone’s social standing, but she had managed to woo the London rakes before Talleyrand had been told to go home and take his fake daughter with him. Lady Standish either hadn’t heard about that experience, Gwen guessed, or she’d simply decided it couldn’t possibly have happened. She was chatting to Simone as if the girl was a new ward. Judging from Raechel’s expression, she was being compared – unfavourably – to the French girl.

But it was clear that Lady Standish was nervous. Gwen had to admit that that was more than a little frightening. Women like Lady Standish walked through life protected by an invisible bubble, an overwhelming confidence that no one would so much as
try
to hurt them. They rarely even considered the possibility that they could be torn down from their pedestals and made to suffer like ordinary mortals. For someone like her to be nervous was worrying. It meant that the mood pervading the palace was even seeping into her.

“I see,” she muttered back, as a line of Russian servants brought out the next course. “What do you think they’re doing?”

“I don’t know,” Romulus said. “But it looks as though the Tsar is waiting for something.”

Gwen nodded as she scrutinised the Tsar and his bodyguards. The Tsar was definitely waiting for something and not, she noted, doing a very good job of hiding his anticipation. But someone like him wouldn’t have to wait for anything, not normally. He was an absolute ruler, after all. What was he waiting
for
?

“I’m going back to our rooms,” she said. Janet would still be there, helping to unpack the clothes she’d packed into bags only yesterday. “I don’t think Her Ladyship will need me for a while.”

“Probably not,” Romulus agreed. “Watch yourself.”

Gwen smiled as she stepped through the door, then headed up the stairs towards the topmost floor. If this building was anything like the Winter Palace, the important offices would be on the uppermost floor. But as she reached the top of the stairs and looked around, it became alarmingly clear that, just like the Winter Palace, the building was almost completely empty. She peered into a handful of rooms and saw nothing, apart from lines on the floor where tables and chairs had once stood. It looked as though the building had been stripped before the British – and French – representatives had been moved into their rooms. There weren’t even any guards on the uppermost floors.

She went down a flight of stairs and searched the next floor, only to find little more than a smoking room, a handful of meeting rooms and a large room crammed full of yet more bladed weapons. She checked, carefully, but found no firearms or anything more advanced than a bow and arrow. Puzzled, she crept into the next room and discovered that it was crammed full of furniture. They’d moved everything down one flight of stairs and then abandoned it.

This doesn’t make sense
, Gwen thought, sourly.
What are they doing
?

Down below, she heard the band start to play. The tune was unfamiliar, but the beat was recognisable as one of the diplomatic waltzes. Rolling her eyes, Gwen crept back down the stairs and back into the balcony. The tables had been pushed to one side, the diplomats and noblemen had moved onto the dance floor and a number of women had appeared from nowhere, making up the numbers. A nobleman was calling the dance, his voice echoing through the entire room ...

... And there was no sign of the Tsar. Gwen felt ice shivering down her spine. Where had he gone?

“He told them all to relax and enjoy themselves,” Romulus said, when she asked. “And then he went out of the room, escorted by his bodyguards.”

Gwen had never really believed in precognition. It was theoretically possible, she knew, but few of the Seers at Cavendish Hall – or the local bedlam – had produced anything that was actually usable. And yet, the sense of impending doom running down her spine made it impossible to believe that something bad
wasn’t
about to happen. She hesitated, wishing – again – that she could talk to Sir Sidney. But he was somewhere within the mass of people on the dance floor, utterly untouchable.

“Keep an eye on Raechel,” she said, heedless of the fact she was giving orders to her superior. “Take care of her.”

She slipped back out of the door before Romulus could argue, then pulled her magic around herself like a shield, concealing her presence as best she could. It would work against normal guards, she knew from experience, but it was anyone’s guess how well it would work against the magician-monks protecting the Tsar. They might overlook her too or they might recognise that something was wrong and start hunting for her. And, she also knew from experience, if someone had a good reason to look, they found it easier to see through her magic. But there was no other way to hide.

It grew colder as she made her way towards the lower levels, concealing herself in the shadows as she passed a handful of armed guards, who seemed more intent on keeping people
in
the building rather than keeping people out. There were more guards outside, she discovered, as she entered the reception hall in time to see a line of monks filing out of the building, chanting quietly in unison. The words sounded like Formal Latin, but Gwen couldn’t understand them. There was no sign of the Tsar.

Outside, she sensed pulsing waves of magic emanating from a second group of monks, probing the minds of their fellows. If the magic touched her, Gwen knew, she would be detected. She drew on her own magic and leapt into the air, floating high above the monks and peering down as they swept through the newcomers. Two were pushed to one side, then beheaded on the spot, their heads falling on the driven snow. Sickened, Gwen looked away as the monks resumed their march out of the grounds and onto the streets. Carefully, she drifted after them, praying that she remained unseen. It was clear the monks would happily kill all intruders.

Moscow was no brighter than St Petersburg, she realised, as the moon rose higher, casting an eerie shimmering light over the whole affair. The soldiers and monks had driven people indoors or out of sight; they moved, unseen, through the city, heading towards a large cathedral that looked new, lacking the grime that covered most Russian buildings. Gwen felt another chill running down her spine as she saw lines of monks entering the building, magic sweeping around them in a manner that was new to her. There was something odd about their magic, something that bothered her. A new form of magic?

And something else was wrong. There were thousands of monks and soldiers entering the building, yet the building didn’t seem to be growing any fuller. She puzzled over it for a long moment, then blinked in surprise as she saw a large golden carriage rattling down the street and come to a halt in front of the cathedral. Moments later, the Tsar stepped out of the carriage and smiled at his worshippers. The monks promptly fell to their knees and prostrated themselves in front of the Tsar. Gwen felt sick – and chilled – as she realised the monks truly did worship their Tsar. No one, as far as she knew, worshipped King George.

The Tsar walked into the building, looking neither left nor right. His monks waited until he was inside the building, then rose to their feet and followed him, the sound of their chanting growing louder as they entered the building. The soldiers brought up the rear, weapons in hand, leaving the grounds completely empty. Gwen hesitated, then dropped down, looking for a way into the building. The doors gaped open invitingly, but there were two monks standing just inside, watching for latecomers. Gwen gathered her magic and banged their heads together, hard. They collapsed to the ground, looking stunned.

Smiling, Gwen checked them both, then pulled the bodies into the shadows and removed the robe and cowl from one of the monks. It smelt of urine, she discovered; underneath, he wore something that looked like a nappy and little else. She remembered one of Sir Charles’s stories and shuddered, forcing herself to breathe through her mouth as she pulled the robe over her head. The eunuchs of India and China were often called the Foul Fraternity because they couldn’t control their bladders after they had their testicles removed. No wonder they stank!

You’ve smelt worse
, she told herself, as she stepped into the building. The traces of magic she’d sensed earlier were gone.
And you’ve seen worse too
.

The cathedral was empty. Gwen stared in disbelief as she looked around the giant hall, seeing nothing and no one, apart from a giant statue of the Tsar at the head of the room. She knew she’d seen thousands of monks and soldiers enter the building, yet there was no sign of them. For a crazy moment, she wondered if she’d hallucinated the whole affair before she caught sight of marks on the ground leading towards a door set into the far wall. Inside, there was a stone staircase heading down into the darkness. Bracing herself, altering her magic so she would look like a monk if anyone saw her, Gwen started to make her way down the steps.

There was a faint glowing light at the bottom, revealing a stone passageway deep under Moscow, leading back towards the centre of town. She paused as she heard the sound of chanting, then froze as she heard something else, a faint whispering right at the edge of her mind. It was chillingly familiar, a noise that had haunted her nightmares since the Battle of London. There were undead somewhere within the complex, far too close for comfort.

She kept moving down the corridor until she saw a door set within the stone passageway. Inside, a number of soldiers sat on the floor, playing cards or rolling dice, clearly bored and unaware of why they were in the complex. Gwen didn’t know either, as she walked past them, but she was starting to have a very nasty idea. The sound of whispering was growing louder and louder as she kept moving forward, telling her that she was moving towards the undead. And if she found them ...?

The thought made her shudder. If there was one thing that Britain and France agreed on, it was that necromancy was incredibly dangerous. But Master Thomas had unleashed the undead in the hope of putting an end to the Swing ... the Tsar might be just as prepared to use the undead as the British Government. Maybe the Tsar was mad enough to consider unleashing the undead because no one dared to tell him no. No one had dared tell Master Thomas and the Privy Council that their scheme was madness either.

I should have
, Gwen thought, feeling a flicker of the old guilt. But she hadn’t known what they’d been planning, not in time to stop them.
All I could do was go to Jack and beg for help
.

The sound of chanting suddenly grew louder. Gwen pushed herself into the wall, wrapping magic around her, as a line of monks marched past her, chanting in deep tones despite their mutilation. Several of them had their hoods down, revealing unkempt beards and wild eyes that reminded her of the Cossacks who’d escorted the diplomatic party to Moscow. Others had their hoods up so high it was impossible to make out anything, apart from pale white chins. They looked thoroughly sinister.

Gwen followed them as they made their way down the corridor, hoping to blend in at the rear of the group. The chanting grew louder and louder as they paused outside a large door, then passed into an even larger chamber. It had been carved out of the earth, with a large statue of the Tsar dominating the room; hundreds of monks were kneeling in front of the statue, praying heavily in thick voices. A line of men stood against the far wall, wearing nothing but loincloths; it took Gwen a moment to realise that their hands were cuffed to the railing. Their expressions suggested they were drugged.

They don’t normally drug and cuff people to get them into church
, she thought, with wry amusement.
Unless they’re really short on worshippers
.

She sighed, remembering. There had been a preacher outside Cavendish Hall every day for a few weeks, screaming that magicians had been touched by the devil and their mere presence would bring God’s judgement down upon Britain. Gwen would have ignored him if he hadn’t started harassing trainee magicians, some of whom would have retaliated, given half a chance. She’d had to arrange for his transportation to Australia as part of a chain gang. No doubt he was now preaching to the other convicts.

The monks she’d been following sat down at the rear of the room and joined the chant. Gwen followed, hoping they didn’t ask her to take off the hood. If they did ... they’d see a girl, rather than a monk. She’d have to fight her way out and vanish, knowing that the Russians would have no trouble recognising her and then claiming that the party’s diplomatic immunity was no longer in effect. But instead, the monks just sat and waited. Gwen felt herself starting to get bored rapidly, wondering just what they were doing here. And then a low rustle ran through the room as a man wearing golden robes entered from a side door.