Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3) (23 page)

She waited for Raechel to enter the bathroom, stark naked, and then helped her into the bathtub. With the water still running, she leaned closer to Raechel’s ear and spoke quickly, but urgently, telling her to make sure she didn’t say anything sensitive out loud. Once Raechel had nodded, Gwen left her to soak and walked back into the bedroom. One wardrobe was full of dresses, all in Raechel’s size; two more held several different outfits, including three fur coats and a swimming costume that concealed more than it revealed. The Russians had clearly done their homework, Gwen decided, as she pulled a long green gown out of the wardrobe and placed it on the bed. But how had they known Raechel’s size?

The Russians are the most capable intelligencers in the world
, Lord Mycroft had told her, once.
They have skill, they have daring and they have patience. We must assume they always know the truth
.

She shivered as the message sank in. The dresses weren’t too hard to obtain, she suspected, not when there were plenty of young girls in the Winter Palace. But the message behind them was alarmingly clear. If the Russians knew Raechel’s sizes well enough to provide clothes and boots for her – there was a pair of heavy fur boots under the dresses – what else did they know? Lord Standish might go into talks knowing that the Russians already knew what he was permitted to offer, which would put him at a serious disadvantage.

Carefully, she closed the wardrobe and searched the rest of the room, looking for secret panels and eavesdropping stations. There was a large bookcase with English books – most of them basic novels, nothing too exciting – and a handful of paintings, each one showing a young girl from childhood to adulthood. It took Gwen a moment to realise that it was the same girl in each separate picture, her dress and hairstyle changing so radically between pictures that only the shape of her chin was recognisable. The words under the paintings were written in Russian, which had a different alphabet. There was no way she could read them.

She paused, then looked through the set of books. One of them turned out to be a guide to the Winter Palace, as if it were nothing more than a tourist attraction. Gwen found a map, glanced at it, and noted that large parts of the building were marked as being off-limits to unauthorised personnel. Other parts seemed to be designed for the Russian Royals and their families, including a swimming pool and a sauna. Their sense of entitlement was evidently greater than that of the British aristocracy. Gwen would have sworn that was impossible. Bracing herself, she tore the floor plans out of the book and dropped them on the bed, then turned her attention to the paintings.

One painting proved to be fixed to the wall; the others were clearly intended to be moved, if necessary. Gwen studied the painting for a long moment, recognising the telltale signs that someone had established a watching post behind the wall, shielded by the painting. She briefly considered trying to cover it with something else, but knew it would betray her awareness that they were being watched. Closing her eyes, she concentrated and tried to feel for the presence of someone on the other side of the painting. But she sensed nothing.

Hopefully they don’t consider Lord Standish’s niece a major priority
, Gwen thought, as she picked up a pair of towels and dressing gowns, then walked back into the bathroom.
And I don’t dare tell her that she’s being watched
.

Raechel was half-sleep in the bathtub, red hair soaking wet. Gwen wasn’t surprised – none of them had been able to wash their hair on the airship – so she helped Raechel to sit upright, then used the showerhead to wash her hair thoroughly with soap and shampoo. Raechel giggled as she stood, then took the towel and dried herself before stepping out of the bathtub.

“Get a wash yourself,” she muttered, as she pulled on her gown and strode into the bedroom. “You smell almost as bad as I did.”

“I was trying not to mention it,” Gwen said. She rather doubted that any of the diplomatic mission smelt very good. Normally, there would have been a day at the embassy to freshen up after the flight. But that plan had gone by the wayside. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

She climbed into the bathtub after removing her dress and underclothes, then washed herself as quickly as possible. She’d always enjoyed soaking herself in the bathroom, but there was no time to relax, not when she was pretending to be a maid. Instead, she washed her hair quickly, used magic to dry herself and then pulled the dressing gown over her body, wrapping it tightly to make sure that it stayed in place. She didn’t want to take any risks if the room was under observation.

“They’ve left some food here,” Raechel called, as she entered the bedroom. She was looking at the floor plans while eating something that smelt of chocolate. “Come and try one of these.”

Gwen frowned as she realised she hadn’t checked the drawers. One of them had held a large box of chocolates, which Raechel had taken out and placed on the bed. Gwen took one, decided she didn’t really like it, then reached for the dress. Raechel sighed, but shrugged off the dressing gown and stood upright, allowing Gwen to lower the dress over her head. It was surprisingly simple to don.

“I think I might ask if I can keep this,” Raechel said, admiring herself in the mirror. “Do you think they’d let me?”

“I’m sure they would,” Gwen said. Now the airship flight was over, she was starting to worry about Olivia again. Who knew what was happening to her? “And what am I meant to wear, do you think?”

“Take one of the other dresses,” Raechel said. She looked Gwen up and down. “We’re not that different in size, are we?”

Gwen snorted, but found a relatively simple dress and examined it, carefully. It was designed for someone of imprecise size, she realised; a good seamstress could fit it to suit just about anyone, unless they were excessively fat. She pulled it out, decided it would suit her, then hesitated. What if they were being watched? Silently cursing herself, she dropped the dressing gown on the floor and pulled the dress over her head. She looked respectable, she decided, as she peered at herself in the mirror, but not aristocratic. If she had, she just
knew
that Lady Standish would have shouted at her for being uppity.

“You look plain,” Raechel said, darkly. “Why not wear something more spectacular?”

“I don’t want to be noticed,” Gwen said.

“Pity, really,” Raechel said. “Those eyes! And that hair!”

Gwen glowered at her, just as there was a loud knock on the door. When she opened it, after schooling her features back into place, she saw a handsome young Russian officer standing there, smiling at her. His gaze moved to Raechel and his smile grew brighter, much to Gwen’s private amusement. Clearly, he had no doubt which of them was the aristocrat.

“My Lady Raechel,” he said. He bowed deeply, his sword almost touching the carpeted floor. “It is my sworn duty to escort you down to the ballroom.”

Raechel coloured. “Thank you,” she said, rising to her feet. “Gwen will accompany us, I’m afraid. My Auntie insists that I go nowhere alone.”

“My sympathies,” the Russian said. He smiled at Gwen, then held out his arm to Raechel, who took it. “But we will survive, I am sure.”

Gwen rolled her eyes at his back as he led them through a network of twisting corridors and stairwells, each one making it harder for her to find her way back to their room. Large parts of the Winter Palace seemed empty, other parts seemed to be bustling with life as people chatted in corners or handed out official orders from the Tsar. If it was anything like London, Gwen suspected, some of the orders would actually come from the staff, rather than the Tsar personally. But just being close to the Tsar would give the staff enormous clout.

And patronage
, she thought, remembering the struggles between King George and Parliament over just how much Royal Patronage the King was allowed to distribute.
Someone in a position to influence the Tsar could distribute a lot of patronage and build up a power base of his own.

They came to the top of a colossal open stairway, leading down into a ballroom that was larger than any Gwen had seen in London. Her eye was drawn immediately to the Tsar himself, perched on a throne that seemed designed for someone considerably larger. He was thinner than Gwen had expected, a neat little moustache on his face, his dark hair trimmed close to the scalp. But it was his eyes that caught her attention, sunk deep into his gaunt face; they were dim and grey, almost manic. She couldn’t help thinking that he looked like a man who wanted to put down a colossal burden and relax, perhaps even sleep until death came for him. He might have ordered the kidnapping of her daughter, but she couldn’t help feeling a flicker of sympathy for him.

He’s the sole power in Russia
, she thought, remembering Lord Mycroft’s briefings.
There’s no parliament, not even a House of Lords. He has to handle everything for himself and woe betide him if he misses something, because someone will use it to put a knife in his back
.

There were a handful of men in black robes standing just behind the Tsar. Gwen studied them with some interest, trying to determine if they were bodyguards, advisors or something else. They looked odd among the finery of the courtiers, like hens or ducks among peacocks, something that bothered her. In her experience, anything that stuck out like a sore thumb was almost certainly going to be trouble. And then Raechel’s companion broke into her thoughts.

“You are not permitted on to the dance floor,” he said. “Servants are only permitted down there with the permission of the Tsar.”

Gwen nodded and took a place on the balcony, alongside Romulus and a handful of other servants that she didn’t recognise. The butler nodded at her as she leant on the railing and watched Raechel descending to the dance floor, arm in arm with her companion, who led her into the dance as soon as they reached the bottom of the stairs. It looked like a slow waltz, rather than one of the faster dances Gwen enjoyed; she hoped – prayed – that Raechel would be more sensible, now she knew she had something to hope for in life. And then she turned her attention back to the Tsar.

Lord Standish was standing in front of the Tsar, speaking to him, although Gwen couldn’t make out the words. He ended his speech by passing the Tsar an envelope, then bowing and withdrawing back to the dance floor, where his wife was waiting for him. Gwen felt cold ice running down her spine at the shunning of all known diplomatic protocol, then felt her heart skip a beat as someone new walked down the stairway without paying attention to her. Lord Talleyrand had entered the room.

He looked older than she recalled, his wig greyer than it had been when they’d first met, but there was no mistaking France’s diplomatic mastermind. Talleyrand strode down the stairs as if he owned the building and marched over to the Tsar with an attitude that warned everyone else to get out of his way. Beside him, a young girl – no older than Gwen herself – captured eyes with her floral yellow dress, long dark brown hair and winsome expression. Gwen swore under her breath as she recognised Simone. She was beautiful, far better than Gwen at flirting with men ... and a Talker. Gwen knew just how many minds she’d read during her stay in London. But did the Russians?

I may have to ask Sir Sidney to warn the Tsar
, she thought, as both Talleyrand and his companion dropped to one knee in front of the Tsar. They might have stolen a march on the British, Gwen realised grimly. It was a point of pride that British statesmen and diplomats never knelt to anyone, but their own monarchs.
And then work much harder on helping Raechel build mental shields of her own.

She carefully checked and rechecked her shields as the Tsar leaned forward, speaking to Talleyrand slowly and distinctly. It was impossible for her to read the Tsar’s lips, but Talleyrand seemed surprised by his words. Simone took a step forward and curtseyed to the Tsar, who laughed and patted her on the head. Looking a little put out, Simone stepped backwards and behind Talleyrand, who kept speaking to the Tsar. Moments later, he took his pretend daughter’s hand and led her on to the dance floor.

“Odd,” Romulus commented. “What was all
that
about?”

Gwen looked over at him, interested. “You can read lips?”

Romulus nodded. “The Tsar was saying no to whatever the frog wanted,” he said, one dark lip curving in a magnificent sneer. “And then he made a suggestion that Simone should find a nice young man to marry and stay in Russia.”

“Oh,” Gwen said. Perhaps it was lucky that Raechel hadn’t been presented to the Tsar. There were all sorts of stories about shady diplomatic dealings that had included the wife or daughter of the ambassador sharing a foreign monarch’s bed. Gwen would have preferred to believe that such things didn’t happen in Britain, but she’d heard too much to doubt it was at least possible. “Maybe he wanted her for himself.”

She returned her attention to the dance floor, her eyes silently tracking Raechel as she made her way from partner to partner. The dance seemed to be completely unstructured, with men and women entering or leaving the dance as the whim struck them, but the more she stared at their movements the more she realised there
was
a pattern. Certain groups of men – and a handful of young women – were refusing to dance with anyone outside their groups, let alone mingle along the sidelines. It looked very much as though there were four separate groups of young noblemen and women, steadfastly refusing to dance together. Five, if one counted the men in black.

Bracing herself, she closed her eyes and opened her mind, despite the risk of Simone realising who and what she was. The torrent of impressions crashed into her mind at once, mingled thoughts and feelings she could barely read; she staggered under the sudden impact, frantically trying to raise her shields again. But, as her shields grew stronger, she realised that there were far darker feelings in the ballroom than she’d expected. The groups she’d counted hated and feared each other, some nervously expecting trouble and others plotting it ... and it was all centred around the Tsar himself. He was a maelstrom of dark and twisted emotional energy, as if he were the centre of his country.