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  The British Empire is teetering on the brink of war with France. A war that may, for the first time, see magicians in the ranks on both sides. The Royal Sorceress, Lady Gwendolyn Crichton, will be responsible for the Empire’s magical resources when the time comes. Still struggling to overcome prejudice within the Royal College of Sorcerers, she has at least earnt the gratitude of much of the aristocracy, if not their respect. Just when Gwen needs to be firmly focussed on training new sorcerers, her adopted daughter Olivia, the only known living necromancer, is kidnapped. Her abduction could signal a terrible new direction in the impending war. But Intelligence soon establishes that it was Russian agents who took Olivia, so an incognito Gwen joins a British diplomatic mission to Russia, an uncertain element in the coming conflict. Once she has arrived in St Petersburg, she discovers that the Tsar is deranged and with the help of a mad monk has a plan that threatens the entire world.

  Immediately following on from The Great Game, Necropolis sees Gwen thrust into the wider international arena as political unrest spreads throughout Europe and beyond, threatening to hasten an almighty conflict. Once again Christopher Nuttall combines exciting fantasy with believable alternate history that is almost close enough for us to touch.

  Necropolis

  Book III

  of the Royal Sorceress series

  Christopher Nuttall

  Elsewhen Press

  ALSO BY CHRISTOPHER NUTTALL

  Royal Sorceress series

  The Royal Sorceress

  The Great Game

  Bookworm series

  Bookworm

  Bookworm II: The Very Ugly Duckling

  Dizzy Spells series

  A Life Less Ordinary

  INVERSE SHADOWS UNIVERSE

  SUFFICIENTLY ADVANCED TECHNOLOGY

  Necropolis

  First published in Great Britain by Elsewhen Press, 2014

  An imprint of Alnpete Limited

  Copyright © Christopher Nuttall, 2014. All rights reserved

  The right of Christopher Nuttall to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, telepathic, magical, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  The use of the typeface Goudy Initialen was

  graciously permitted by the designer, Dieter Steffmann.

  Elsewhen Press, PO Box 757, Dartford, Kent DA2 7TQ

  www.elsewhen.co.uk

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-908168-62-7 Print edition

  ISBN 978-1-908168-72-6 eBook edition

  Condition of Sale

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  Elsewhen Press & Planet-Clock Design are trademarks of Alnpete Limited

  Converted to eBook format by Elsewhen Press

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, colleges, and events are either a product of the author’s fertile imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organisations, places or people (living, dead or undead) is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  To Elspeth and Catherine Nuttall

  Prologue

  Written for publication in The Times, London, 1831. Article suppressed at the request of His Majesty’s Government.

  It is with great dismay that we report an attack on Cavendish Hall, home of His Majesty’s Royal Sorcerers Corps. The incident was spearheaded by an explosion in one of the training compartments, which apparently served as a diversion to allow the actual attack to take place without interruption. As far as can be determined, the aim of the attack was the kidnap of OLIVIA CRICHTON, adopted daughter of LADY GWENDOLYN CRICHTON, the Royal Sorceress. The kidnappers succeeded in removing OLIVIA CRICHTON from Cavendish Hall and, as of writing, she has not been recovered.

  Large parts of OLIVIA CRICHTON’S past are a mystery. It is known she was adopted after the Swing, with several people suggesting that she is the daughter of either Master Thomas or Master Jack, but there are no records of her existence prior to that time. Nor is there any clear reason why LADY GWENDOLYN CRICHTON chose to adopt her, despite being barely of marriageable age herself. The only reasonable assumption seems to be that MISS CRICHTON possesses powerful magic of her own. If she is indeed the daughter of a Master Magician, she may well be a Master herself.

  LADY GWENDOLYN CRICHTON flatly refuses to comment on the affair. However, her father, LORD RUDOLF CRICHTON states that OLIVIA CRICHTON has been accepted into the family, suggesting that she may well have an aristocratic birth, even if the records are sealed.

  Speaking in the House of Commons, HIS MAJESTY’S PRIME MINISTER, THE DUKE OF INDIA, stated that the attack would not be allowed to hamper His Majesty’s Government’s preparations for war with France, which is expected at any moment. The Royal Sorcerers Corps, in common with the other military arms of this great nation, will stand shoulder to shoulder against any threat. However, with an attack that has apparently caused a considerable amount of damage, the reputation of the Royal Sorcerers Corps has been badly dented at the worst possible time.

  Inspector LESTRADE of Scotland Yard was unwilling to comment, but sources within the government have suggested that the kidnapping was intended to put pressure on LADY GWENDOLYN CRICHTON, who would be expected to lead the Royal Sorcerers Corps into battle, despite being a woman. COLONEL SEBASTIAN, who has rejoined his old unit, was unavailable for comment, but other disgruntled magicians have warned of the dangers of female emotions interfering with military operations. If LADY GWENDOLYN CRICHTON is threatened with her daughter being killed or otherwise hurt, how will she react under such pressure?

  The timing of the incident appears dire. With war against France seemingly days or even hours away, and the Russians apparently reluctant to commit to either side, we can only pray that OLIVIA CRICHTON is recovered as soon as possible. Indeed, the fate of Great Britain and her Empire might depend on her safe return.

  Chapter One

  Olivia Crichton fought her way back to wakefulness through a haze of pain.

  Her memories made no sense. She’d been in the library, studying – again – with her tutor, tryin
g to master boring Latin grammar she knew she’d never use outside Cavendish Hall. Apparently, educated ladies were supposed to know Latin; privately, she figured that she’d forget it as soon as she had impressed her tutor and he moved on to something more interesting. And he’d given her a drink of water. And ...

  She swallowed hard, cursing her own carelessness. Six months off the streets and she’d lowered her guard long enough to take a drink from a near-stranger, a man who hadn’t tried to hide his disdain for the street child Lady Gwen had adopted. There had to have been something in the water, she realised slowly, something to knock her out. And then she’d been transported somewhere else.

  Carefully, without opening her eyes, she felt out her surroundings. She was lying facedown on something soft, her hands were firmly tied behind her back. The environment felt as if it were rocking slightly, reminding her of the first time she’d sailed on a boat up the Thames with Jack, before the Swing. She could hear nothing, apart from a thrumming sound that seemed to come from below her. And, as far as she could tell, she was alone. Bracing herself, she opened her eyes.

  She was in a cabin, she realised at once. It was barren, apart from a mattress and a tiny porthole that shone bright light into the room. The walls were blank metal; the door seemed strong enough to resist an army. But she knew better than to stay where she’d been put. A childhood in the Rookery had taught her that being helpless was never a good idea. She twisted slightly, testing her bonds, then started to press against the knots. It didn’t feel as though she was bound tightly enough to prevent her from carefully working her way free.

  The other girls at the Hall would be helpless by now, she thought, with a flicker of contempt and bitter amusement. Their perfumes and social graces wouldn’t get them out of this mess.

  She smiled, darkly, as she managed to loosen the ropes enough to pull her hands free. In theory, she was an aristocrat herself, the adopted daughter of the Royal Sorceress. But in practice, no one took her seriously, apart from Lady Gwen and the senior magicians, some of whom viewed her and her magic with barely-concealed horror. She simply didn’t have the noble blood of the other women at Cavendish Hall, let alone the endless lessons in etiquette that had been drilled into their heads since they were old enough to tell the difference between a knife and a fork. There was no one at the hall she could really talk to, not as a friend. But then, in the Rookery, friendship had often been secondary to bare survival. A friend could hurt you more effectively than a stranger.

  Her hands came free. She let out a sigh of relief, remembering the first time she’d been captured and tied up by an older man who hadn’t realised she was a girl. Not that that would have saved her, she knew; his tastes might have run to young boys, but there were plenty of others on the streets who preferred young girls. She might well have been sold to one of the brothels and never been seen again, or simply wound up with her throat cut in an alleyway. But she’d escaped the bastard and she would escape this new prison too.

  She undid the bonds on her legs, then stood up, gingerly. Her legs felt weak, as if the drug hadn’t worked its way completely out of her body. She shuddered, then staggered over to the porthole and looked outside. There was a seemingly endless stretch of water outside but, in the distance, she could see land. She pulled at the porthole, trying to open it up, but rapidly discovered that it was impossible. It was firmly sealed against escape.

  Gritting her teeth, she walked over to the door and tested it. It was hard to open, but it wasn’t locked. Olivia blinked in surprise, then decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and crept outside. In the distance, she could hear someone talking in a language she didn’t recognise, but there was no one in sight. They must have believed that the bonds were enough to secure her, she thought with another flicker of contempt. If she’d been a born noblewoman, she reminded herself, they would probably have been right.

  The floor – the deck, she told herself – was silvered, reflecting her own face back at her. She scowled darkly as she saw her torn dress and long blonde hair, knowing that there was no way she could still hope to pass for a young boy. She’d filled out alarmingly ever since coming to Cavendish Hall and feeding regularly, growing breasts and a thick mane of hair which took far too long to prepare every morning. If it hadn’t been for the maids, Olivia would have cut her hair as short as Lady Gwen. But they’d been insistent and Olivia hadn’t wanted to defy them, even though she was technically their social superior. They’d helped save her from all manner of social embarrassments in the time she’d been at the Hall.

  She brushed her hair out of her face, looking down at her dress. It still bothered her to know that it had cost enough money to feed a dozen families in the Rookery for six months, both because of the expense and because it made her a target. Wearing something expensive in the Rookery was just asking to be robbed, unless one happened to be so well known and fearsome that everyone else was scared instead. And to think that it was one of the cheaper dresses in Cavendish Hall! She should have worn trousers instead, she told herself tartly, even if Gwen would have disapproved. It would have been far more practical than the damned dress ...

  Olivia froze as she heard someone coming down the corridor towards her. She glanced around hastily, looking for somewhere to hide, but saw nothing apart from unbroken metal. There was no time to get back to her cabin-prison before he came into view ... she braced herself, then ran forward, cursing the dress under her breath. The man gaped at her as she charged him, then raised his hands, too late. Olivia rammed her fist into his chest with all of her strength, then chopped at his throat. He dropped to the deck, choking and gasping for breath.

  Idiot, Olivia thought, with a certain amusement. Growing up in the Rookery had taught her how to fight – and fight properly, not like the aristocrats and their obsession with fair fights with stupid rules. And most of the girls she had to study with at Cavendish Hall would have refused to fight, even if they’d been threatened with rape and murder. The very thought of being without male protection would have shocked them, even as half of the silly cows railed against being taken for delicate and dependent women. They wouldn’t have lasted a day in the Rookery.

  She tore at her dress, abandoning modesty in favour of movement, then started to run towards a ladder leading up to the next level. Another man was coming down the ladder, carrying a large metal box in one hand; Olivia ran forward and punched him, as hard as she could, in the groin. He staggered, then fell, screaming in pain. Olivia cursed her own mistake – the entire boat would hear the racket – and then scrambled up the ladder as quickly as she could. Outside, sea air slapped at her face; she heard the sound of gulls calling as she came out of the hatch and ran towards the railing. But when she saw the water, she froze. Land was so far away that it was barely a strip of green on the horizon.

  Ladies weren’t normally taught to swim. Gwen had insisted she learn, and she’d taken to her lessons far better than any of the aristocratic girls, but she’d only ever swum in the large pool at Cavendish Hall, wearing one of the absurd bathing costumes that covered almost everything, apart from her face and hair. The idea of swimming in the sea made her hesitate a moment too long, just long enough for someone to wrap their arms around her and yank her backwards. Olivia gasped in pain as he squeezed, then lifted her foot and kicked him in the leg as hard as she could. He grunted, but ignored it. She screamed and he clamped a hand over her mouth, precisely as she had hoped. Opening her mouth, she bit him as hard as she could, biting down until she drew blood. He gasped, his grip on her loosening. Taking advantage of his distraction, she pulled herself free and started to run.

  But where could she go? She’d seen a handful of boats, but this one didn’t look large enough for her to hide long enough to be rescued, if anyone knew where she was. Gwen would look for her – Olivia had no doubt of that – but how would Gwen knew where to start looking? And could she even catch up with the boat in time to save Olivia? The kidnappers, whoever they were, might well take th
eir humiliation out on their captive, who had dared to try to escape. Olivia had heard enough stories from the Rookery to know she didn’t dare let herself be recaptured.

  She reached the stern of the boat, stared down at the choppy water, and started to scramble over the railing. It would be a long swim; probably a very dangerous swim, but at least she would take her destiny in her own hands. She was midway over her railing when she heard a voice behind her.

  “Stop,” it ordered. “STOP!”

  Olivia’s body froze before her mind quite caught up with what was happening. For a long moment, she teetered on the railing, as if she were about to fall over the edge and plummet into the water, then strong hands gripped her and pulled her back onto the boat. She was rolled over and found herself looking up into the eyes of a tall thin man with short dark hair and an incredibly pale face. Even if she hadn’t felt his magic, she liked to think she would have deduced what he was from his expression alone. There was a hint of arrogance in his face that all such magicians seemed to have in common, the belief that they were superior to their fellow men, even their fellow magicians.