The Iron Wyrm Affair, Page 5

  “The green silk’s fair done for, mum.” Catherine’s fair freckled face pinched in on itself as soon as she’d spoken, her collar glowing as well. She often flinched at the end of a sentence, despite the indenture here being relatively easy. Or at least, Emma thought it should be regarded as comparatively easy. Mistreated underlings stood a higher chance of being disloyal underlings even with the insurance of a collar; she had seen enough of indenture to know that.

  Catherine had come to her Without Reference, and Severine had much protested indenturing a girl who had no papers. Finch had been against the notion too.

  But they were not the mistress at 34½ Brooke Street. Catherine’s doglike fidelity and skill with a needle – she was a sempstress of no mean ability, so much that Emma suspected her of a limited needle-charmer’s talent, though not enough sorcery to make it illegal to indenture her – not to mention her untiring capacity for work, had proven said mistress right in this instance.

  Had she been proven wrong, she was more than capable of punishing the transgressor in her own fashion.

  Severine busied herself at the tiny table near the window, fussing until everything was just so. “You are pale, madame. You work too hard. Come, the chocolat is hot. And the croissants fresh! Very fresh.”

  “Just a moment, cher Severine.” Emma stretched again, luxuriously, as Catherine disappeared into the dress-house and Isobel’s humming started up in the bath room over a cascade of falling water. The girl was always singing something or another. Today it was a tune much heard on Picksdowne, a country girl bemoaning faithless love and a city gent. It was vaguely improper, but Isobel was a good girl. She and Catherine reworked and shared Emma’s cast-off dresses, though not the burnt and battered ones, and more than once they had performed last-minute miracles when Emma’s wardrobe required such.

  To be a servant of Britannia of Emma Bannon’s stripe could – and sometimes did – require going with little to no notice from a filthy back alley in Whitchapel or Seven Dials to a Grosvenor Square ball.

  Both environments had their dangers, certainly. There were others in the service of the ruling spirit much as Emma was, but she eschewed any contact with them. Murky secret societies were, in her opinion, only to be infiltrated. Besides, there was certain latitude granted her as a soloist, so to speak.

  And not so incidentally, even other sorcerers would feel trepidation at the prospect of dealing with a woman who was both Prime and of a Black branch of Discipline. Even if she kept her exact branch a fairly close secret, she would be hard pressed to pass as even one of the Grey, let alone the White. For one thing, she was too bloody practical.

  And for another, she did not mind the blood and screaming as a proper woman should.

  Emma touched the obsidian globe on her nightstand. The globe’s surface, chased with silver in fluid charter symbols, rippled and trembled like water. Her fingers stroked, soothing, and the house vibrated again. Every ætheriel protection on her home was clear and tight, a Prime’s will and ætheric force coursing in channels laid through physical substance, tied swiftly and efficiently with complex invisible knots, and all as it should be.

  The novels stacked around the obsidian globe were all exceedingly improper and sensational, and she smiled ruefully at them. When this is all over, I’ll lie abed and read for a week.

  She had been making herself that promise for months. There was always a fresh crisis brewing. The Prince Consort was inexperienced and the Queen was still young, even though she was Britannia, and there was no shortage of intrigue. Victrix’s lady mother had only recently been prised from her daughter’s tender back, her influence slowly leaching away from the young Queen, who had not proved amenable to being ruled by Dearest Mum (as she was irreverently but very quietly called) after all.

  If not for a dedicated few interested in serving Queen Victrix rather than her mother… well, who could say? Britannia would reign, no doubt, long after her current incarnation fell prey to old age, and after Emma’s long life as a Prime was finished as well.

  Still, it did not mean she could neglect her duty.

  Queen and Country, how boring. Wouldn’t you like some real power? And Llewellyn’s parting words – Emma did, indeed, have her hands on a mentath.

  No doubt Mr Clare would have some ideas. She had a few of her own, including where to start the next day’s unravelling of this tangled web. But for the moment, she shrugged into her robe and settled at the small table, and Severine clucked over her while she had her morning chocolat. In short order she was finished, the day’s gown was chosen, and the luxury of hot water was not nearly savoured enough before she was in her dressing room, being loosely corseted and encased in a high-collared almost drab brown velvet, her hair chafed dry and lovingly pinned up by Isobel’s quick fingers, a little parfum dabbed behind her ears and her jewel cases opened, plundered, and put away. Catherine retreated to the bath room and Isobel to the bedroom, to set both to rights before the chambermaids came along to clean.

  Thus fortified, and her thoughts somewhat rearranged, she checked herself in the large mirror over her white-painted vanity and frowned slightly. Slightly dowdy, yes. But at least if this dress were ruined, she would not feel so bad. “Severine. Do have Catherine report to Mr Finch on the frocks I’ve had damaged in the past week, and ask Finch to prepare a bill, itemized, for each. And for the ones I will no doubt ruin in the near future.”

  “Oui, madame.” Severine clasped her plump hands, standing near the door. “Cook will want to know the menu—”

  “I’ll be leaving the menu in your and Cook’s hands for the upcoming week. Mr Finch should know I am not receiving for the time being, as well.”

  “Oui, madame.” Severine’s cheeks had turned pale. When the menu was left to her and Cook it was always acceptable – but still, the housekeeper was terrified of a misstep, as well as breathless with fear for her mistress.

  Severine’s last indenture had not been pleasant. Emma had learned it was best not to reassure her overmuch; such coddling only made her more nervous. Like mastering a high-strung unAltered horse, it was best to be firm and brisk, but gentle.

  “And please do have Finch secure more linens for our guest, and find him a suitable valet among the footmen. I rather think Mr Clare may be stopping with us for a while.”

  The salle was long and drenched with sunlight as well as the directionless glow of witchballs caged in filigreed aluminium, the floor mellow wood occasionally covered with rough mats supposed to make a fall during Mikal’s daily practice less dangerous. Of course, the idea of Mikal falling was preposterous. Rather, the mats were a gesture.

  Or they were for the infrequent times when she had company capable of sparring with a Shield. Like today.

  Well, perhaps capable was too generous a term. For Mikal moved almost gently, deflecting the mentath’s flurry of blows. Clare was not untrained, but to an eye used to the Collegia’s classes of practising Shield candidates he appeared slow and graceless. Still, he was sweating, stripped to the waist, and surprisingly muscular. Emma folded her arms, watching Mikal as he gave ground, pivoting neatly and pulling the mentath off balance. A single strike, and Clare doubled up, losing most of his air. Mikal wore an odd little smile, one that meant he was enjoying himself.

  Emma took notice of her unladylike posture, and clasped her gloved hands before her. The sardonyx ring prickled, and she had kept the amber prie-dieu, freshly glowing with a charge of sorcerous power from Tideturn. Today, though, the earrings were long jet daggers, and the cameo at her throat could hold a great deal of charge. Two more rings – one ruby, another a thick dull golden band – completed today’s set. She was as prepared as it was possible to be.

  He will not like this. She waited patiently, watching Mikal’s smile deepen a trifle as Clare levered himself up from the mats.

  “You do not have to look so bloody entertained, sir,” Clare panted.

  “My apologies.” Mikal’s grin widened. “Another round? You are quit
e agile, mentath.”

  Clare waved the compliment away. “No, no. I fear I am done. And Miss Bannon has made her appearance.”

  Oh, so you remarked my absence, did you? “Gentlemen.” She accepted Mikal’s traditional bow and Clare’s slightly less formal movement with a nod. “Did you sleep well, Mr Clare?”

  He flushed, all the way up to the roots of his sandy hair. “Quite well, thank you. And you, Miss Bannon?”

  “I am well enough, thank you. I shall be gone for the day, hunting some rather interesting loose ends of this conspiracy. Here is the safest place for you, Mr Clare, and with Mikal to watch over you—”

  “Prima.” Just the one word, but Mikal’s face was a thunder-cloud.

  “Do not interrupt, Shield.” She let the sentence carry its own warning. “Your charge is to protect the mentath. It appears mentaths are central to this series of events; therefore, he shall be as safe as I may make him while I hunt in other quarters. I shall hopefully return in time for dinner – Mr Clare, we dine a trifle early, I do hope that won’t inconvenience you?”

  “My digestion agrees with the notion.” But his long, sweat-greased face had returned to mournfulness, and he shrugged into a threadbare shirt, folding down the turnover collar precisely. “However, Miss Bannon, I am not at all certain that I am the only target of the attacks we have endured so far. Last night—”

  There are other reasons for me keeping you mewed here, thank you. “These foxes now know I am at their heels. My barouche is making deceptive rounds today, and I shall slip about largely unseen.” She loosed her fingers with an effort, ignoring Mikal’s tension, a powder-bloom of deep bruiselike colour visible to Sight. “I assure you, Mr Clare, I am quite capable of performing the duty Her Majesty has assigned me – namely, protecting a mentath, and ferreting out the source of this unpleasantness.” Her shoulders ached; she relaxed them with an effort. “My staff has been set to procuring you fresh linens – yours have arrived from the Chancellor’s care, and been laundered – and providing you with a valet, since you may be my guest for some small length of time. Would you be so kind as to accept Mr Finch’s questions on those matters, once you have refreshed yourself?”

  “Delighted to.” The look on his face shouted that he would be anything but. Still, he did not waste time. He simply shook hands with Mikal and left the salle. Of course, he would think her terribly unfeminine.

  Let him. His opinion matters little; his continued existence is what I am to protect. She held Mikal’s gaze as the salle door closed with a decisive snick, and the Shield’s cheekbones were flushed with ugly colour under their copper.

  Fighting did not make him blush so.

  “You will guard the mentath.” Even, level, her tone nevertheless paled the sunlight coming through the long upper windows. The witchballs shuddered, one of them spitting a few blue sparks.

  “My Prima.” His jaw set. A fine thin tremor ran through him as her will hardened, the link between them painfully taut.

  My Prima. As in, it is my duty to guard you. “He is in more danger than I am. And I have my reasons, Mikal.”

  A small, restless movement. If he dared, she almost thought he would argue with her.

  And that could not be allowed.

  “Good.” She touched her skirts, her reticule brushing against velvet. The bonnet she’d chosen was far worse than dowdy, but at least she would feel no sting if it was lost or damaged, and it did not interfere with her peripheral vision. “Until dinner, then.”

  And there she would have left it, but for his stubbornness.

  “Emma.” Tight-clipped, her name, forced from his throat. “Please.”

  Sorcerous force flared through her. He fought it, but she was Prime, and her will forced his knees to bend. When he was in a Shield’s abeyance, kneeling with his hands resting loose against his thighs, head bowed and almost every muscle locked, she let out a soft sound between her teeth.

  “I am Prime.” The words turned to gall, scorching her throat. “I am not some hedge-charmer to be ordered about. I allow you a great deal, Mikal, but I will not abide disobedience. You will guard the mentath.” The threat of you strangling me as well is not enough to make me tolerate an order from a Shield. Not nearly enough at all.

  The struggle went out of him. He slumped inside the cage of her will. “Yes,” he murmured.

  “Yes…?”

  “Yes, my Prima.”

  It was a wonder he did not hate her. Of course, he very well might. But as long as he was desirous of continued survival, they were allied. Hatred mattered little in such an alliance.

  Or so I tell myself. Until he finds a better treaty to sign, and then? Who knows? “Good.” She turned, skirts swishing, and set off for the door. Her will slackened, but Mikal did not move.

  “Emma.” Softly, now.

  She did not halt.

  “Be careful.” A little more loudly than he had to, making the salle’s bright air tremble, dust swirling softly. “I would not care to lose you.”

  Sudden self-loathing bit under her breastbone. It was a familiar feeling. “I have no intention of being lost, Mikal. Thank you.” I should not have done this. Forgive me. The words trembled just on the edge of her tongue, but she swallowed them, and left him behind in the sunlit salle.

  Chapter Eight

  You Will Do, Sir

  The sorceress’s house was odd indeed. It was a good address – Mayefair was a very respectable part of Londinium, and Miss Bannon was of course comfortable. Rare indeed was the sorcerer with bad business sense, though most of them affected a high disdain for such matters. To be in trade carried its own shame, sometimes worse than the stigma of sorcery.

  The house seemed far larger than its exterior would have given one to surmise, and he did not like that illogical notion at all. It caused him some discomfort until he consigned it to his mental drawer of complex problems judged worthy of further investigation at some later date, if at all.

  The suite he had been shown to by the cadaverous Finch – tall, thin, marks of childhood malnutrition around his jaw and evident in his bowed legs, dressed in dusty black but with his indenture collar lovingly polished – was furnished spare, dark, and heavy, but the fume of scorched dust told him hurried cleaning charms had been applied just prior to his residence. Dark wainscoting, leather and wine-red upholstery, but the bed was fresh and its linen crisp. Fire crackled merrily on the grate, and he was gratified to see that during his morning’s exercise newspapers and periodicals had been brought, stacked neatly on the huge desk. Plenty of paper had been provided as well, and a complete set of Encyclopaedie Britannicus, in fifty-eight volumes, was arranged on the bookshelf, along with two dictionaries and a chemist’s arrangement of reference works.

  Miss Bannon must have given orders. It would do to keep his faculties occupied for a short while.

  The servants were proud, but they spared no effort. Each one had a burnished indenture collar, and they were an odd assortment. Finch, for example, spoke with a laborious upper-crust wheeze, but Clare’s trained ear caught traces of a youth spent mouthing Whitchapel’s slur and slang. The man’s musculature was wasted, but several of his mannerisms led Clare to the conclusion that Finch was familiar with the ungraceful dance of a knife fight or two in the darkness of a forgotten alley.

  Then there was the pair of chambermaids – one with long chestnut ripples pulled tightly back, all elbows and angles in her brushed black gown, the other a short, plump, fair Irish colleen – who descended on his room to put it to rights a few moments after he pulled the bell-rope upon awakening. And the housekeeper, a round merry-eyed Frenchwoman with an atrocious Picardie accent, who had fussed him into a Delft-and-cream breakfast room and tsked over him.

  The chambermaids both flinched at odd moments, and the housekeeper compulsively straightened everything she could lay her hands upon, tweaking with deft fingers. Yet they did not seem precisely afraid; Clare’s sensitive nose caught no acrid note of fresh fear. The food, of cours
e, was superlative, for all that Miss Bannon made no appearance until mid-morning in the salle.

  And what an appearance that had been.

  The man Mikal was still a puzzle. Clare settled in a chair next to the fire and lit his pipe, puffing thoughtfully. He was ready to turn his entire attention to the problem of the Shield, but there was a tap at the door.

  A pleasure foregone was enough to irritate him at the moment. “Enter!”

  The door opened and the Shield appeared, his yellow eyes flaming and his entire body stiff. “I hesitate to disturb—” he began, but Clare brightened and waved him further into the room.

  “Come in, come in! You will do for a half-hour at least. Is Miss Bannon gone?”

  “I saw her to the door.” The man’s jaw set, and Clare deduced he was most unhappy with this turn of events. It was, from what he could remember, not at all usual for a sorcerer, especially a powerful Prime, to set foot outside without a Shield or three, or more.

  Of course, what Clare knew of sorcery was little more than the average man would. It did not do to think too much on the illogical feats such people were capable of performing. On the other hand, a surface study of such things would have armed him with enough to make workable deductions about Miss Bannon’s character.

  Let us test the waters. “No doubt you can tell me her true motivation in leaving the pair of us mewed here.” He took a mouthful of smoke, tasted it speculatively, and almost smiled at the sensation. Mentaths did not feel as others did; logic was the pleasure they moved towards, and irrationality or illogic the pain they retreated from. Emotions were to be subdued, harnessed, accounted for and set on the shelf of deduction.

  Privately, Clare had decided that few mentaths were completely emotionless. They simply did not account fully for Feeling, it being easier to see the occlusion in a subject’s gaze than in their own. It was simply another variable to guard against, watch for, and marvel at the infinite variety of.