The Great Game (Royal Sorceress) by Christopher Nuttall Page B

why, but all seven of the Healers discovered since the Swing were lower class. The Royal College tested hundreds of potential candidates every month, yet they’d been unsuccessful in finding an aristocratic Healer... In hindsight, Gwen suspected that they would have found Healers earlier if they’d abandoned their reluctance to recruit from the lower classes before the Swing.
    And all but one of the Healers were female.
    “Healers are a different issue,” he said, finally. “They certainly cannot be trained with the other students.”
    Norton cleared his throat. “We shall graduate forty new magicians this year,” he said, defusing the tension in the room. “Most of them are already earmarked for the military, but the police have expressed an interest in additional Movers, should they be available.”
    “Tricky,” Sir James pointed out, quietly. “We took losses during the Swing.”
    Gwen nodded. The uprising had killed nearly half of the magicians who had been in training at the time, as well as a number of experienced tutors. In some ways, the problems Lord Brockton had complained about had been caused by the Swing; Master Thomas, whatever else he’d done, hadn’t ensured that there were tutors held in reserve. Given time, Gwen was sure that the problems would be overcome, but time seemed to be in short supply.
    “The military comes first,” Lord Brockton insisted. “We may be at war with France by the end of the year.”
    “True,” Gwen agreed. “On the other hand, we can keep a reserve of magicians in the capital and assign them to support the police.”
    Surprisingly, there was no disagreement.
    Sir Benjamin MacIver, Head of Changers, coughed for attention. “We must face facts,” he said, dispassionately. “We need more magicians.”
    “Hence the decision to recruit from all classes,” Gwen reminded him, tartly. Sir Benjamin was less pointlessly obstructive than Lord Brockton, which made him all the more dangerous to Gwen’s position. “We need to find more magicians as quickly as possible.”
    “Indeed we do,” Sir Benjamin said. “And while I share your disdain at the whole farm program, it was successful in providing us with additional magicians. Right now, however, we are dependent upon nature to provide us with new recruits.”
    Gwen fought down the flash of rage that threatened to overcome her. Was she going to be fighting the same battle over and over again? Oh, she could see their point – magic had made the British Empire supreme and that supremacy had to be maintained – but it didn’t change the fact that the farms had been grossly immoral. And of questionable value.
    “I believe that we can compromise,” Sir Benjamin oozed. “We have considerable funds available to us. It would be quite simple for us to pay women to have children with selected fathers and to supervise their upbringing. Should they have magic, we could take them into the Royal College from a very early age.”
    “But such a program would be public,” Doctor Norwell pointed out. “It could hardly avoid being public. And then we’d be risking...”
    “Very little,” Sir Benjamin stated. “There are plenty of women from the lower classes who sell their children. We would merely be purchasing the ones who... meet our demands.”
    Gwen took advantage of the argument to concentrate her mind. She couldn’t show her anger openly or they’d just dismiss her as an emotional women, too emotional to be allowed anywhere near a position of power. Cold logic was required to outmanoeuvre Sir Benjamin, yet cold logic suggested that he was right. Why not pay women to have children with the right fathers?
    As Royal Sorceress, Gwen had been asked to patronise a number of charities, including one intent on keeping fallen women off the streets. She’d looked into it before committing herself and discovered that the charity had a high failure rate. Puzzled – she would have accepted any offer that took her off the