The Royal Sorceress (53 page)

She held Olivia to her, praying inwardly for success. “Tell them to stop,” she repeated. “Focus on the creature and tell it to stop…”

She sensed the magic a second before it flared into existence. Olivia screamed out loud as the revenant froze, and then collapsed to the ground. But there were still screams from outside…

“Tell them all to stop,” Gwen said. She was pushing Olivia right to the edge, but there was no other choice. The ruthless part of her mind understood that one small girl’s life was a small price to pay for saving London. The rest of her was horrified at her callousness. But she was the Royal Sorceress now, the only one who could save the city. Maybe Master Thomas had felt the same, years ago. “Tell them to stop.”

The screams from outside started to fade. Lucy stood up and walked towards the remains of the door. “They’re all lying on the ground,” she said, her voice quiet, yet awed. “They’ve stopped!”

“Get parties working on burning them,” Gwen ordered.

She’d expected resistance, but Lucy nodded and headed out of the door. Gwen looked down at Olivia, who had stumbled into a faint, and shook her head. The law was clear; necromancers were to be executed. There was no right of appeal.

Gwen shook her head. The law was wrong. And besides, they had to convince the government and the rebels to come to terms. If they had to go through it all again, the next bout of civil unrest would be worse.

Picking up the girl’s light form, she walked out of the makeshift hospital and waved to one of the horse-drawn carriages. It would only be a short ride to the Tower of London – and then she could talk to the one man who might be able to make a difference. And, for that matter, the one man who could issue a pardon for a necromancer.

And she would do whatever it took to ensure that that pardon was issued, and honoured.

Chapter Forty-Five

I
would very much like to know,” Lord Liverpool said, “precisely why you feel that you can…dictate to us in this manner.”

Gwen sighed. It had taken a week to convince the Prime Minister to agree to the meeting. A week, during which London had burned the bodies of the revenants and their honoured dead, side by side. She’d expected Lord Blackburn to be attending the meeting, dripping poison into their ears, but it seemed that Lord Blackburn had decided to take a short holiday overseas. Someone would have to take the blame for the whole crisis – and the British aristocracy, ruthlessly pragmatic when pushed to the wall, had already decided who was going to be publicly accused. The decision to put troops on the streets on London was placed firmly on Lord Blackburn’s shoulders.

“She has the support of the King,” a new voice said. The Prime Minister stumbled to his feet as George IV, King of Britain and Emperor of the British Empire, walked into the room. He was wearing his finest robes, decorated with symbols that dated all the way back to the first monarchs of England. “We have lost all confidence in your government, Liverpool.”

Lord Liverpool stared at him. Gwen felt a flicker of sympathy, which died when she remembered how many thousands of people had died over the last two weeks. Lord Liverpool had guided the British Empire through the unrest that had threatened its stability, but even he couldn’t stand openly against the King. George IV’s public loss of faith in the Prime Minister would force him to stand for re-election, but his party would almost certainly drop him like a hot coal.

“You mishandled this crisis very badly,” the King said. His voice was calm, but there was absolutely no give in it at all. “You helped create the conditions for revolution by allowing many of your supporters to exploit those without the money or connections to defend themselves. You put troops on the streets in a highly volatile situation – and then failed to back up those troops when you lost control of the streets. And finally, you unleashed necromancy on British citizens. Do you really feel that Parliament will stand for that?”

Lord Mycroft coughed, heaving his enormous bulk around to face the King. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I was under the impression that a French necromancer was responsible for the plague of undead.”

They exchanged long looks. Gwen had wanted to publicly blame Lord Liverpool for sending Master Thomas to reanimate the government’s secret weapon, but the King had talked her out of it. Parliament – and the British population – would convulse if the full truth ever got out, forcing Lord Liverpool to spend all of his political capital to avoid impeachment. The agreement they’d made would blame everything on the French, giving the country something to unite around – and in return, Lord Liverpool would retire quietly and gracefully. Enough people knew the truth to ensure that he could never return to politics.

“It does sound like something the French would do,” the King agreed, quietly. “They sent a monkey to spy on Hartlepool after all. I’m sure that a necromancer would be well within their powers. They’ll deny everything, of course.”

They would, Gwen knew, and they wouldn’t be believed. Fear of France was one of the few things that united all Englishmen behind their government. It would provide a face-saving excuse for the government to make concessions and the rebels to accept them, ending the uprising without further bloodshed. Gwen had quietly promised herself that she would ensure that all of the promises were upheld. She was indispensable as long as there were no other Masters, giving her tremendous influence. And Master Thomas, for reasons known only to him, had left her most of his possessions in his will. She was also suddenly one of the richest people, male or female, in the British Empire.

Lord Liverpool looked at Gwen for a long moment, as if he couldn’t believe how much she’d changed. Neither could Gwen, to be honest. “These…concessions you wish us to make,” he said, finally, “will upset many people. I would go so far as to say that they will upset everyone.”

“Good,” the King said. “It will please no one, but they can accept it. And I will spend the rest of my reign ensuring that they are honoured.”

There was a pause. Some of the concessions weren’t too onerous. Universal suffrage; men and women of all social classes would get the vote, by secret ballot. A minimum wage for workers and manager liability for any accidents within their factories that could have been avoided; strict laws on the use of child labour; universal education, better medical care…the British Empire could survive making such changes. Besides, in the long run, Lord Mycroft had already determined that they would benefit the British Empire. Few doubted his word.

But others would be a struggle. The rebels wanted a universal right to bear arms, pointing out that successive governments had disarmed the population and then forced them to accept wildly unpopular policies. There would be no regular army units within the cities; instead, the Trained Bands would be resurrected and actually trained. The police would operate under strict laws that would prevent them from abusing their position, or accepting bribes. And there would be government-funded emigration, allowing anyone who wanted to settle elsewhere to migrate without indebting his entire family for life. Lord Liverpool would burn up the rest of his political capital forcing Parliament to accept them, something that would render him ineffective if he did somehow manage to remain in politics.

Gwen told herself that Jack would have understood, but in truth she wasn’t too sure. Officially, Jack and Master Thomas had died heroically, fighting the revenants. Far too many people had watched the fight for the truth to be completely buried, but few people would want to believe the truth. It was far better for the country to believe that the ultimate defender of the old order and the man who had brought hope to the poor had died together, united in a common cause. Or so she’d been told, by none other than Lord Mycroft. She could only hope that he was right.

The King rose to his feet and smiled down at his servants. “I shall be returning to Windsor Castle this evening,” he said. Windsor Castle was currently being defended by a unit of rebel troops, taking the place of the King’s normal bodyguards. The Prime Minister wouldn’t be blind to the significance of the King’s unspoken statement – or, for that matter, the difficulties of disarming the rebels after London was back in government hands. “I will expect to see a signed treaty by then so I may take it to London myself.”

He left the chamber, not looking back.

Lord Mycroft chuckled, harshly. “I wonder what we have unleashed on the world, Madam Sorceress,” he said. It was the official title for Royal Sorcerer, adapted for a Sorceress. Gwen still found it strange to be addressed in such a manner. “You have shaken the entire country. What will you do next?”

“Go to Cavendish Hall,” Gwen said. “I have work to do there.”

***

Most of Cavendish Hall was still intact, despite the rebel bombardment and the fire that had scorched part of the interior. Gwen had managed to assert her authority to convince many of the staff to return, along with hiring a number of builders to start repairs. No one had quibbled too loudly. The death of Master Thomas and the rise of an undead army had shocked them and most of the magicians had accepted Gwen’s authority without demur. A handful hadn’t and had complained to Lord Mycroft, only to be told that they could either accept Gwen or hand in their resignations. Most of them had chosen to stay, although she suspected that some of them were just waiting for her to make a mistake. Or, perhaps, for another Master to appear.

Master Thomas’s rooms should have been hers, but she had been unable to bear the thought of moving into them. The staff sealed them up, after Gwen had carefully removed every book and paper and transferred them to her own rooms. She would have to go through them all carefully, paper by paper, looking for whatever secrets Master Thomas might have taken to the grave. And if she failed to find his notes, she would have to discover the techniques herself. She stared down at a logbook that dated all the way back to the foundation of the Royal College and shook her head. It had to be read, but not today. And maybe not by her.

A knock on the door brought her back to herself. She wiped her eyes and used magic to unlock the door, allowing Doctor Norwell to enter. The theoretical magician, barred by long custom from claiming any real authority within Cavendish Hall, looked concerned. Gwen was unlikely to forget his role in planning and supervising the farms – and, as a mundane human, he was expendable. Lord Mycroft wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow if Gwen told him to leave the Hall and never return.

“I have the logbooks you requested,” Doctor Norwell said, after taking the seat Gwen had indicated was for him. She’d have to set up a proper office, she told herself firmly, although that was hardly a priority right now. There were hundreds of matters that had to be attended to before she could deal with her own comfort. “Everything from the first year to...the end of the program.”

Gwen nodded, slowly. “Good,” she said. “And the farms themselves?”

Doctor Norwell looked pained. “My Lady, with all due respect...”

“The farms were a crime against humanity,” Gwen said, flatly. She would never forget the image of Lord Blackburn having sexual congress with a woman who hadn’t wanted to be there. “I want the entire program shut down. The children are to be allowed to grow up on their own, without pressure.”

“Yes, My Lady,” Doctor Norwell said, tightly. “I will see to it personally.”

Gwen had no intention of budging on that particular matter. Besides, the papers she’d seen had confirmed that around half of the children were born without any magic at all. They tended to be removed from the program by the time they reached their late teens. At least they’d been given a small lump sum from the government. She shuddered to think what would have happened if they’d just been turned onto the streets.

“And after that, I want the records sealed,” Gwen added. He shrank under her gaze. “No one is to even know that the program existed.”

She watched Doctor Norwell leave the room and shook her head as soon as he had closed the door behind him. It wasn’t something she wanted to think about, but someone would have to make sure that the theoretical magicians never tried to reopen the program. Perhaps there was a compromise, perhaps paying mothers to have children with the right fathers...she shook her head again. The entire concept was sickening.

Twenty minutes later, there was a second knock on the door. This time, it opened to reveal Lombardi and a rather nervous Lucy. Gwen had assigned Lombardi to look after Lucy, counting on his shy manner to reassure the Healer. Lucy would have felt out of place in Cavendish Hall, even without having to face the attentions of a great many theoretical magicians who wanted to study a Healer. Lombardi had strict orders to ensure that they didn’t overwhelm her while they tried to work out how to look for other Healers. Besides, Lucy’s existence had given Gwen another tool for convincing the government to make peace with the rebels. A Healing talent would work to the government’s advantage.

“This place is a nightmare,” Lucy said, as Lombardi closed the door. “I don’t know how you coped with them poking and prodding you while they tried to find out how you made magic work.”

“I wasn’t unique,” Gwen pointed out. There had been four other Masters; it struck her, suddenly, that she
was
unique. The farm program had only produced one Master in its entire existence. Doctor Norwell insisted that more research would allow them to grow Masters without having to rely on random (and unknown) factors. Gwen had shut the program down instead. “I’m sorry about it, you know.”

“I understand,” Lucy said, without bitterness. She sat down and dismissed Lombardi with a toss of her head. “I want to talk about another friend of ours.”

Gwen nodded. “She should be safe,” she said. The King had signed a pardon for Olivia the day after she’d stopped the undead army in its tracks. Lord Blackburn – if he’d still been in Britain – would probably have quibbled over its legality. Someone smarter, with an eye to the long-term issues, would know better. Raising the question of the King’s right to grant a pardon would eventually call into question the legitimacy of the government itself. Besides, having at least one tame necromancer in the Sorcerers Corps might come in handy. The French or the Russians might eventually develop a necromancer of their own.