Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3) (7 page)

Gwen nodded. Russia’s disastrous recent history had nearly brought about the collapse of its Empire. Tsar Nicolas I had considered the Ottoman Empire a prime target for violence, perhaps with the long-term aim of recovering Istanbul for the Orthodox Faith. But the Ottoman Sultan had been reforming his armies and regenerating his Empire’s moribund economy and the results had surprised everyone. The Russians had been forced back, whole armies had been destroyed and dangerous tremors had run through the entire state. In the end, the Russians had conceded defeat. No one realistically expected them to accept it indefinitely.

“The Russians have agreed to accept an ambassadorial party to discuss matters,” Lord Mycroft continued, breaking into her thoughts. “On the surface, this party will be intended to raise the possibility of keeping Russia out of the war, should it actually break out.”

“And with a covert purpose of finding my daughter,” Gwen said.

“Precisely,” Lord Mycroft said.

Gwen looked down at the pile of cakes for a long moment, then looked up at him. “I will be accompanying the mission,” she said. “I am the most capable magician available.”

Lord Mycroft looked embarrassed. “We would prefer not to send you openly,” he said, after a long pause. “You are simply far too recognisable. Besides, the Russians would be very wary of you and your powers. We don’t want to spook them when war is so close.”

Gwen glowered at him, rebelliously. “I’m not leaving my daughter there,” she snapped. “I will go if you like it or not.”

“I’m not asking you to leave her there,” Lord Mycroft said. He leaned forward. “You just can’t go as
yourself
.”

“You want me to go in disguise,” Gwen said. She looked down at her mannish trousers and winced, inwardly. It was simple enough to pose as a man for a few short hours, but the longer she tried to maintain the deception, the more cracks would appear in the act. There was no way she could go to a male toilet – at least a public one – without revealing her true sex. “As what?”

Sir Sidney leaned forward. “As a maid,” he said, flatly. “No one ever pays attention to the help.”

He was right, Gwen knew. As a child, she’d thrilled to stories of brave adventurers making their way through enemy territory disguised as servants, traders or even religious figures. Sir Charles had seemed a dream come true, when they’d met, simply because he reminded her of her childhood heroes. And he’d actually dressed up as a native and walked among them, sight unseen. A servant would pass unnoticed where a noblewoman would be blindingly obvious.

“To be precise, we will insert you into the Ambassador’s retinue as one of the maids,” Lord Mycroft said. “He will be unaware of your true identity, as will everyone else on the mission with the exception of Sir Sidney. You will be required to play the role until you find Olivia and recover her, whereupon Sir Sidney will assume command of the mission and act as he sees fit. We have provided sealed orders for him to use if necessary.”

“I see,” Gwen said. “It sounds like a workable plan.”

She smiled. There was no point in trying to direct events from thousands of miles away. The British Empire had expanded so far by trusting the officers on the spot to make the right decisions, without high command peering over their shoulders. Besides, even with Talkers, the situation could change remarkably before the updated orders could be sent, let alone received.

“It won’t be easy,” Lord Mycroft warned. “You will have to act the part of a maid until the time comes for you to reveal yourself.”

Gwen swallowed as the full implications sank into her mind. Young Ladies of Quality did almost nothing for themselves, certainly nothing relating to household chores. Her mother had tried to teach her how to sew, which was seen as a ladylike occupation, but she hadn’t taught Gwen how to manage a household, at least beyond issuing orders to the help. Maids, on the other hand, were expected to work from dawn to dusk for only a minimum wage. If they complained ... well, there was no shortage of young women trying to make a living from serving their social superiors. A maid could be kicked out of the house if she dared to utter a single complaint.

And there were worse things that could happen than merely being yelled at by the Lady of the House.

“I understand,” she said. It was for Olivia – and for the British Empire. If Sir Charles and Sir Travis could endure torture for the sake of the nation, she could play the role of a lady’s maid. “I can do it.”

Lord Mycroft gave her a long considering look. Gwen couldn’t read minds, but she was sure she knew what he was thinking. She’d grown up in High Society, even if they’d considered her a devil-child rather than a normal young lady to be shaped and moulded into the ideal debutante and socialite. It might have been a hard life at times, but it was nowhere near as bad as being one of the lower classes. She had been isolated and largely abandoned to a stream of tutors, yet she hadn’t been kicked, beaten or forced to sell her body to survive. And her magic had ensured she was effectively unmarriageable.

“Good,” Lord Mycroft said, finally. “Sidney?”

Sir Sidney smiled, tapping his fingernails as he spoke. “The mission will be headed by Lord Henry Standish, who has been appointed the Special Ambassador to Russia,” he said. “Lord Standish has considerable experience in important negotiations and, more importantly, has been granted a certain amount of leeway in the hopes we can bribe the Russians to stay out of the war. I will be accompanying him as Military Attaché and his second, in the event of him needing to be overruled at some point.”

He paused. “Lord Standish will be selecting the remainder of his staff from his cronies,” he added. “We won’t know who they are until the mission is ready to depart, although we have some good guesses. However, he will also be taking his wife, Lady Marie” – Gwen twitched at the reminder of her mother’s name – “and his ward, Raechel Slater-Standish.”

Gwen frowned. She paid almost no attention to the society pages, but she knew of Raechel Slater-Standish from overhearing conversations in Cavendish Hall. The young woman had been blazing a path through High Society, scandalising it and giving plenty of older women the vapours. Gwen had to admire someone like that, even though it was the sort of release she could never allow herself, not now. Anyone who managed to irritate so many of High Society’s Grande Dames deserved to be admired.

“I believe the young lady is seen as rather a trial,” Lord Mycroft said. There was a faint hint of amusement on his face. “You may wish to keep an eye on her at all times.”

“Because she’ll try to cause trouble?” Gwen guessed. It seemed likely, but she could think of another explanation. “Or because you want to recruit her?”

“It is a possibility,” Lord Mycroft agreed, neutrally. “She’s smart, but totally indiscreet. We might not consider her a suitable candidate for recruitment unless she grows up.”

He paused, then took another cake. “I won’t say that this will be easy, Lady Gwen,” he said, in an almost paternal manner. There was a grim look in his eyes that betrayed his concern. “You will find it far harder than investigating a murder or an outbreak of magical power. And there’s no guarantee of success.”

“I know,” Gwen said. The thought of failure was terrifying. But so was the thought of staying in Cavendish Hall, waiting for news. She had to do something, anything. Going to Russia would put her closer to her daughter. “I’ll do it.”

“Good luck, then,” Lord Mycroft said. He rose ponderously to his feet. “Sir Sidney will fill you in on the remaining details, then make preparations to insert you into the Ambassador’s household. I suggest you take a few days to learn your duties. It will not be easy to pick them up once you leave the country.”

He paused. “And I would also suggest you make preparations for your death,” he added. “There is a very strong chance you won’t be coming back.”

Gwen swallowed, nervously. “I understand,” she said, through a suddenly dry mouth. “I won’t let you down.”

Chapter Six

O
livia shivered helplessly, testing her bonds to no avail. It had been four days, she thought, since they had left St Petersburg and started to gallop further to the east. Every day, it had grown colder and colder, with snow falling around the horses and making the beast carrying her as cold and miserable as Olivia herself felt. Every night, they’d stopped at a way station where she’d cuddled up to the fire while Ivan, the bastard, renewed the commands he’d put in her head. Right now, even if she’d somehow managed to break her bonds, she doubted she could make it away from the Cossacks. Her legs would simply refuse to obey her.

There were shouts from the Cossacks. Olivia allowed herself the fantasy of someone attacking the small convoy and rescuing her, but it was not to be. Instead, they cantered up towards a low dark building, barely visible through the driving snow. The horses came to a halt in what she assumed was the courtyard, and their riders dismounted. Olivia tried to glare at Ivan as he came up beside her and started to loosen the ropes binding her to the horse, but she didn’t have the energy. It was all she could do to stand upright when he tugged her off the horse and down to the ground.

“I suggest you don’t try anything stupid here,” Ivan said, as he undid the cuffs binding her ankles together. “There is literally nowhere to run.”

Olivia looked around as he half-led, half-pulled her towards the dark building. The snow was falling faster now, making it hard for her to see more than a couple of yards before her view was completely obscured. She had even less idea of where she was than she’d had at St Petersburg, where she might have been able to find help. There was no point in trying to run, even if he hadn’t implanted so many commands into her head that they were giving her nasty headaches. She gritted her teeth as she saw a door yawning open in front of her, then stepped through. It banged closed behind them a moment later, leaving the Cossacks outside.

“They don’t mind the weather,” Ivan said, when she asked. “This is a light summer day for them.”

“I don’t believe you,” Olivia said.

Ivan snorted, rudely. “This isn’t that far to the east – or the north,” he said. “There are places further to the north where winter is always dark and cold – and snow is always to be found on the ground. We send rebels, traitors and dissidents there to count trees.”

He smiled, as if he’d made a joke. Olivia didn’t understand. Ivan didn’t seem to care. Instead, he carefully removed her cuffs, freeing her hands for the first time in four days. Olivia rubbed at her wrists frantically, remembering horror stories about criminals who had been arrested and then forgotten about for a few hours. They’d sometimes lost their hands completely, simply because the cuffs had been too tight. Ivan hadn’t cuffed her that hard, but her wrists were still sore.

“Get your coat off,” he ordered, as he led her into another room. The heat slapped her in the face, hot enough to make her sweaty and uncomfortable. A large bathtub, steaming furiously, was set in the middle of the room. “Get undressed completely, have a long soak, then walk into the next room. There’ll be new clothes there.”

Olivia nodded, cursing her treacherous fingers as they started to undo the buttons on her coat, which was dripping with melting ice and snow. Ivan gave her a sharp look, warning her against doing anything stupid, then walked out of the door, leaving her alone. Olivia immediately tested the door and discovered, not entirely to her surprise, that it was firmly locked. The Russians clearly weren’t taking any chances with her. Cursing her mistake, in words that would probably have earned her a long lecture from Gwen, she finished undressing and climbed into the water.

It was gloriously warm, warm enough to make her entire body relax. She had to force herself to get out of the water after what felt like hours and stumble into the next room. Inside, there was a large bed, a robe that reminded her of a dressing gown, and a set of combs and hairbrushes. She puzzled over the robe before realising that it would provide absolutely no protection at all, if she managed to get out of the building. It was just another chain binding her to the Russians, more subtle than the others.

She pulled the robe on, then looked around. A book lay on top of a table, written in English, but she couldn’t parse out the words. It was probably something religious, she decided, as there was a cross on the front. But she had never had any inclination to follow a formal religion, not when too many of their priests preferred to tut-tut at people like her rather than do anything to help. There was a knock at the door and she turned, just in time to see a thin-faced woman with long dark hair pushing a trolley into the room. Olivia’s stomach rumbled as she smelt food.

The woman said something Olivia didn’t understand, then removed a small bowl from the trolley and placed it on the table, along with a wooden spoon that looked absurdly small for its role. A moment later, she added a glass of brown liquid and a second glass, containing water, then bowed to Olivia and made her way out of the room. Olivia hesitated – it was easy enough to stick a drug in food – then shook her head and sat down in front of the table. If the Russians wanted to drug her, they could just have their Cossacks hold her down while they forced poisons or sedatives down her throat. They didn’t need to dupe her into taking the drugs herself.

She found that she was ravenous as she devoured the bowl of dark purple soup, although she wasn’t entirely sure what it actually was. It tasted faintly of beetroot, she thought, with some additional flavours she didn’t recognise. But she felt human again when she had finished the bowl and decided to risk a taste of the brown liquid. It was a kind of beer, she decided, before she put it to one side. She’d never cared for alcohol on the streets and she wasn’t about to start now. The water tasted oddly flat, but it was definitely safe to drink. Or so she hoped.

There was another knock on the door when she’d finished, suggesting that she was under observation. Olivia winced – she’d grown far too used to privacy in Cavendish Hall and she’d tried to stay alone on the streets – and then watched helplessly as the door opened. At least the Russians probably weren’t interested in her as anything other than a Necromancer. The streets were utterly unsafe for young girls and boys.