The Red Plague Affair: Bannon & Clare: Book Two, Page 2

  Easily, softly, the brass syllables wound down from Emma Bannon’s lips. She leaned over the mentath, cradling him, and breathed in his face. His body jerked again and the sorceress relaxed slightly, uncurling her mental grip from the repaired clot of fibrous muscle in his chest. One final stanza, her nose wrinkling slightly as the acridity of some drug burned her sensitive palate, and the language of Mending fled her.

  She sagged, and the almost-bruising grip on her shoulders was Mikal’s hands, fever-hot and hard with callouses. Emma blinked, shutterclicks of dim light stinging her suddenly sensitive eyes, storing away the taste of whatever substance had been running through Clare’s blood. Hmmm. No wonder he has looked rather ragged of late. It tastes dreadful, whatever it is.

  Mikal’s face was tense and set.

  “He will live.” It was a relief to hear her usual brisk tone. For a moment, she had almost been… had she?

  Afraid. And that could not be borne, or shown.

  “He will live,” she repeated, more firmly. “Now, let us be about clearing up this mess. I have a ball to attend and a duke to chastise.”

  Lady Winslet’s dowry had restored the fortunes of her husband’s family, and though she was not taken into quite the highest echelons of Society, her taste and judgement were considered quite reasonable. She had redone a fashionable Portland Place address – one of Naish’s, of course – in a manner most befitting her husband’s title. Of late she had taken to inviting an astounding mix to her Salons, patronising certain promising members of the Royal Society, and had garnered much praise for her dinners. In a few generations, the Winslets would be very proud indeed to have invited such a petty bourgeois into their hallowed family tree.

  If, that is, she managed to produce an heir. Barry St John Duplessis-Archton, Lord Winslet, was a dissipate scoundrel, but he had ceased gambling and now only drank to a religious degree that might preclude fathering said heir. He had a nephew who showed some signs of not being an empty-headed waste of a few fine suit jackets, but, all in all, Emma privately thought the Winslets’ chances rather dim.

  And no breath of scandal attached itself to Lady Winslet; she did not seem the sort to have a groom provide the necessary materials to make a bastard either. Very sad; had she been just a trifle less extraordinary she would have more chances of success against the ravening beasts of Society and Expectation.

  All of that was academic, however, for Emma had known the Duke of Cailesborough would be at the Winslet ball. One of his current mistresses was attending, and furthermore, Emma herself had carefully planted a breath of rumour that would interest him.

  And he had taken the bait whole. Which led to her presence in this forgotten, cramped second-floor storeroom full of discarded bits of off-season furniture and rolled-up, unfashionable carpets. A single candle, stuck in a dusty candelabra probably dating from the time of the Mad King Georgeth, gave wavering illumination to the scene.

  Eli straightened, exhaling sharply. He was not rumpled in the slightest, though there was a slight flush to his cheeks. Perhaps embarrassment, for the quality of Cailesborough’s struggle had been quite unexpected.

  Said Cailesborough, on the floor, trussed hand and foot and gagged with commendable efficacy with his own sock, glared at Emma with the one blue eye that was not swelling closed.

  For a man of the aristocracy, he had put up a rather remarkable tussle.

  That was immaterial. “Now,” she said, softly, “what do we do with you?”

  She had the dubious honour of addressing a Spaniard, moustachioed and of a small stature to inspire a touch of ridicule or pity, his right arm twisted behind him in an exceedingly brutal fashion by a silent and immaculate Mikal, who twisted his lean dark face and spat at her.

  There was a creaking sound, and Mikal’s other hand clamped at the small Spaniard’s nape. “Prima?” The one word was freighted with terrible menace, and had Emma been feeling insulted instead of simply weary, she might have let her Shield do what he wished with the man. Mikal’s eyes burned in the dimness, a flame of their own.

  Outside the locked door, a hall and the cigar room away, the music swelled. Her absence would not be remarked during the waltz, but perhaps the Duke’s would.

  They will be missing him a very long time. A greater worry returned, sharp diamond teeth gnawing at the calm she needed to deal with this situation in its proper fashion. Is Clare well? Resting comfortably, I should hope.

  She put the thought aside. He was as easy as she could make him, and she had other matters to attend to at this moment. Her regard for a mentath was one thing. Her service to Queen and Empire was quite another.

  “On the one hand,” she continued, suppressing a slightly acid burp – for Lady Winslet’s cold supper tonight left a trifle to be desired – and clasping her hands prettily as she sank onto a small, handy-even-if-covered-with-a-dustcloth chair, “you are a diplomatic personage, sir, and Her Majesty’s government does believe in observing proper forms. It would be a trifle awkward if a member of the august consulate of that pigeon Isobelia disappeared.”

  Don Ignacio de la Hoya went almost purple and cursed her in a whisper. He was emphatically not a Carlist, which was interesting indeed. The Spanish embassy had been rather a hotbed of anti-Isobelian sentiments for a long while, the round, benighted, silly Queen of the Spains had never had much of a chance against those who wished her a catspaw. Still, she was nominally in power, and Emma supposed the idea of royalty and majesty might have held a certain attraction for some of her subjects. Especially if they were as ill-favoured and ratlike as this specimen.

  His throat had been almost crushed by Mikal’s iron fingers, and now, the sharp stink of fear poured from him in waves.

  The dustcloth would perhaps taint this dress. She should not have sat, and she was taking far too long over this part of the matter. Still, Emma tilted her head slightly and regarded the man. Don Ignacio writhed in Mikal’s grip, and it would be merely a matter of time before he collected himself enough to raise a cry, bruised throat or no.

  There was little chance of him being heard over the merriment and music, but why take the risk?

  He stared at her, and the sudden spreading wetness at his crotch – it was a shame, his trousers were of fine cloth – sent a spike of useless revulsion through her. Champagne and terror were a bad mixture, and this man was no ambassador. He was a low-level consulate official, despite his Don; but, she supposed, even a petty bureaucrat could dream of treason.

  “Did you truly think you could plan to murder a queen and go unnoticed?” She sounded amused even to herself. Reflective, and terribly calm. “Especially in such lackadaisical fashion? The weapons you brought for the planned insurrection will be most useful elsewhere, I suppose, so we may thank you for that. And that baggage…” She indicated the prostrate, struggling Duke with a tiny motion of her head, and Eli, well used by now to this manner of situation, sank a kick into Cailesborough’s middle. He had not yet gone to fat, the Duke, but he was still softer than Eli’s boot. “… well, he has some small value for us now. But you? I do not think you have much to offer.”

  Don Ignacio de la Hoya began to babble in a throaty whisper, but he told Emma nothing she did not already know of the plot. He had very little else to give, and fear would only make him too stupid for proper use. His replacement in the consulate was likely to be just as idiotic, but vastly less troublesome.

  His heart, she found herself thinking. What manner of substance was he using? The damage was much more than it should have been; thirty-five does not make a man old. Merely lucky, and somewhat better-fed than the rest.

  She brought herself back to the present with an invisible effort. Mikal read the change in her expression, and the greenstick crack of a neck breaking was very loud in the hushed room. The candle on the table guttered, but the charm in its wax kept the flame alive.

  On the floor, the Duke moaned, his eyes rolling. He was to be delivered to the Tower whole and reasonably undamaged. For a bare
moment Emma Bannon, Sorceress Prime in service to Queen and Empire, contemplated crushing the life out of him by sorcery alone. It would be messy, true, but also satisfying, and Queen Victrix would never have to fear this caged beast’s resurgence. He had chosen ill in the manner of accomplices, but he was capable of learning from such a mistake.

  The decision is not yours, sorceress, she told herself again. Cailesborough had been one of the few allowed near Alexandrina Victrix when she had been merely heir presumptive under the stifling-close control of the Duchess of Kent; of course he had not been a marriage prospect but he had no doubt been amenable to extending the Duchess’s sway over her soon-to-be-crowned daughter. The old King’s living until Victrix’s majority had cheated the Duchess of a regency, and no doubt Victrix had cheated Cailesborough of some prize of position or ambition. Still, the Queen appeared to wish him dealt with leniently.

  If the Tower could be called lenient.

  De la Hoya’s body hit a rolled up, unfashionable carpet with a thump, raising a small cloud of dust. Mikal glanced at her. “Prima?” Did he look concerned?

  It had taken far more sorcerous force than she liked to lure them both to this room and to spring her trap. And the worry returned, sharper than ever. Clare was not a young man, and he seemed inclined, if not flatly determined, to do himself an injury.

  “Bring the body, and the Duke.” Londinium’s fog was thick tonight, and it would cover all manner of actions. “The window is behind those dreadful curtains – and do make certain the Duke lands gently. Lady Winslet’s gardens need no damage.” She stood, a slight crackling as her finger flicked and a cleansing charm shook dust free of her skirts. The silver shoes with their high arches and spangled laces were lovely, but they pinched abominably, and her corset squeezed as well. I would much rather have been at home tonight. How boring I’ve grown.

  “I’ll fetch the carriage.” Mikal paused, if she wished to tell him where they were bound. It was a Shield’s courtesy, and a welcome one.

  “We shall take both unfortunates to the Tower.” Though the body will go no further than the moat. The Dweller should be pleased with that.

  Eli bent and made a slight sound as he managed the Duke’s bulky, fear-stiffened form. Mikal simply stood for a moment, watching her closely. She took back the mask of her usual expression, straightened her shoulders and promised herself a dash of rum once she returned to her humble abode.

  And still, the worry taunted her.

  Something must be done about Clare.

  Chapter Three

  Grief Is Unavoidable

  Dark wainscoting, large graceful shelves crammed with books and periodicals, including an entire set of the new edition of the Encyclopaedie Britannicus – Miss Bannon’s servants were, as ever, extraordinarily thorough – and the heavy oak armoire full of linens charm-measured exactly to Clare’s frame. The rest of the room was comfortably shabby, rich red velvet rubbed down to the nub and the tables scattered with papers left precisely where he had placed them the last time he had availed himself of Miss Bannon’s hospitality.

  The oddity was the chair set by his bedside, and the sorceress within it, her slightness cupped in heavy ebony arms and her curling dark hair slightly mussed as she leaned against the high hard back, sound asleep, dressed in silver and blue finery fit to attend a Court presentation. Her childlike face, without her waking character to lend authority to the soft features, was slack with utter exhaustion.

  Of no more than middle height, and slight as well, it was always a surprise to see just how small she truly was. One tended to forget as the force of her presence filled a room to bursting.

  The other oddity stood at his chamber door, a tall man with tidy dark hair, an olive-green velvet jacket and curious boots, his irises glowing yellow in the dimness. The smell of paper, clean sheets, a faint ghost of tabac smoke, and the persistent creeping breath of Londinium’s yellow fog alone would have told Clare he was in the room Miss Bannon kept for his visits.

  Which had been rather less often than he liked, of late. The sorceress’s company could not be called restful, precisely, but all the same Clare found it rather relaxing to have at least one person with whom he could feel a certain… informality?

  Was comfort the more precise term?

  The Shield, Mikal, did not stir. His yellow gaze rested upon Clare with distressing penetration.

  Lucid. But very weak. He tested his body’s responses, gingerly. They obeyed, grudging him as if he were an invalid. Fingers like sausages, toes swollen but movable, his chest sore as if a gigantic clawed hand had rummaged through the inside of his ribcage and left a jumbled mess behind.

  Now for the important part. His eyes half-lidded, and he performed the curious mental doubling of a mentath. A set of mental chalkboards rose before his consciousness, and he began with the simplest exercises he had learned at Yton when his talent had truly begun to manifest itself. Mentath ability came to the fore during late childhood, scholarships were quite generous for any who showed considerable promise.

  Said scholarships, however, were contingent upon that promise being fulfilled.

  A quarter of an hour later, loose with relief but sweating from the mental effort, Clare let out a long, shaky sigh. His faculties were unharmed.

  Miss Bannon, perhaps disturbed by the slight sound, shifted in the chair and fell back into slumber. Clare now had the opportunity to study her while she was deeply asleep, and it was so novel an experience he rather wished he had not been forced to forgo a portion of that time to making certain whatever had happened to him had not destroyed his capacities.

  You are avoiding, Clare. It was angina pectoris. Rather severe, too.

  Mikal’s eyes had half-closed as well. The Shield leaned against the door, and he was perhaps almost asleep. Did he think Clare a threat to the sorceress?

  She did rather manage to accomplish a fair amount of vexation. Especially to Britannia’s enemies. And she did so with a disregard for her own safety likely to give the Shield, tasked with maintaining said safety, a bit of nervousness.

  However, it was far more likely that Mikal was unwilling to let Miss Bannon out of his sight for… other reasons. Quite personal considerations, one could say.

  The question of Mikal had occupied Clare most handsomely at one time or another. Since the affair that had brought the mentath into the sorceress’s circle – not that Miss Bannon had anything so social as a circle, it was rather the circle of her regard, which frankly interested Clare more – he had added tiny nuggets of information to the deductive chain Mikal represented.

  Your heart, Clare. Do not become distracted.

  He was clean, and in a bed which linens smelled of fresh laundering. The last event he remembered was the darkness of the sewers swallowing him whole. Slightly irritated, he shifted in the mattress’s familiar embrace. How had he arrived here, of all places?

  The answer was stupidly simple. Valentinelli, of course. Where else would the Neapolitan bring him? The man was as fascinated by Miss Bannon as Mikal was.

  Or as you are. You are seeking to distract yourself from a very important chain of deduction. Angina pectoris. A severe attack. You could have died.

  Yet here he lay, clean and safe. At least, it would take a great deal of unpleasantness before this house became unsafe.

  Miss Bannon no doubt performed some illogical miracle, and is sleeping at your bedside. In that dress, she was no doubt a-hunting in Society for a traitor, turncoat, criminal, or merely one who intrigued too openly against Queen Victrix. Yet here she sleeps, and you are… comforted? Troubled?

  The problem, he reflected, was that Emotion was insidious, and an enemy of Logic.

  Item one: he had lost Dr Vance. Again.

  Item two: the more-than-mild chest pains during the hunt for the blasted art professor were unequivocally symptoms of a much larger quandary.

  Item three: Miss Bannon, breathing softly as she slumped in an uncomfortable-looking chair. She took very little car
e with her person, and it was not quite right for Clare to put her to such worry. It was not worthy of the regard he held for her, as well.

  He had no family; his parents were safe in churchyard beds, and his siblings had not survived childhood. But had he been one of those blessed with surviving kin, Clare supposed he would have felt for them much the same way he felt for Miss Bannon. A rather brotherly affection, tinged with a great deal of… what was it? Worry?

  He might as well worry about a typhoon, or houricane. Miss Bannon was eminently capable… but she was also strangely fragile, being female, and Clare was not behaving as a gentleman by putting her to such bother.

  You are being maudlin. Emotion is the enemy of Reason, and you are still distracting yourself. Had he not been a mentath, Clare might have been tempted to stifle a groan. As it was, he merely swallowed the offending noise and set himself to exercise his reason, since his faculties appeared undamaged.

  “Clare.”

  He almost started, but it was only Mikal, breathing the single word from his place at the door. The gleam of his irises was absent; the foreign man – for Clare had deduced he was, in fact, of the blood of the Indus, even if he had been born on Englene’s shores – had closed his eyes.

  “Yes?” Clare whispered.

  “You could have died.”

  I am not an idiot, sir. “Yes.”

  “My Prima greatly weakened herself to avert such an event.”

  Obviously. “I am most grateful.”

  Emma Bannon stirred again, and both Shield and mentath held their peace for a short while. When she subsided, sliding sideways to end propped against one side of the chair like a sleepy child during a Churchtide evening, Mikal let out another soft breath. His words took shape inside the exhale.

  “She is… fond of you.”

  Oh? “Only a little, I’m sure.” Clare shifted uncomfortably. Such swimming weakness wore on him; stillness was remarkably painful after a while. “Sir—”

  “She is fond of very few.”