The Iron Wyrm Affair, Page 8

And the sharp-sweet copper tang of blood.

  No, it wasn’t smoke. Her sensitive eyes were merely failing her. It had been so bright earlier, even through the lowering clouds; her head hurt, a spike of pain through her temples. The gate quivered, iron resonating with distress; for a moment she was unable to remember the peculiar ætheric half-twist that would calm the restive guardian work wedded to metal and stone.

  Either that, or she was clutching the wrong gate. But no, she blinked hazily several times and looked up as another wave of sorcery slid past her, ruffling her hair and almost, almost catching the edge of her skirts. When they found the blood trail—

  I am home. Numerals made of powdery silver metal danced, charter symbols racing over their surface in golden crackles: 34½, a sweeter set of digits she had never seen. The high-arched gate trembled until she calmed it and found the breath to hum a simple descant.

  Or she tried to. It took her a long while of sipping in air suddenly treacle-thick.

  Finally she managed it. The gate shuddered and unlatched, one half sliding inward; veils of ætheric energy parted just as the next wave of sorcerously fuelled seeking tore past, arrowing unerringly for her as she tipped herself forward. It nipped at her heels, the sympathetic ætheric string from her own blood yanking, seeking to drag her backwards into the street.

  But she was safely inside her own gate, the defences on her sanctum snapping shut, and Emma Bannon went to her knees on the wet, pretty front walk, lilac hedges snapping and thrashing as the house recognised her and filled with distress. Rain pattered down; she went over sideways, her hand still clamped to the wound. Another hot gush of blood; she heard running feet and exclamations, and she struggled against the grey cotton cocoon closing around her.

  Thank goodness this dress was already ugly, she thought.

  And, I must live. I must.

  I know too much to die now.

  Chapter Twelve

  Our First Dinner

  Normally, Clare supposed, a woman half-dead of the application of a knife to her lung – discovered covered in blood and water at her own front door, no less – would be put abed for weeks. Certainly she would not appear, pale as milk and with one half of her childlike, almost pretty face bruised, at her dinner table in fresh dark green silk with very close sleeves and divided skirts, brushed boots, the cameo still caught at her throat and a new pair of earrings – sapphires in heavy silver – dangling with each turn of her head. Her ringlets were rearranged as well, and though she did not wear a bonnet, he was fairly certain one lay in waiting, probably in Madame Noyon’s capable care.

  It was no great trick to deduce that Miss Bannon’s day was far from over.

  The Shield, his jaw set so hard it looked fit to crack his strong white teeth, hovered behind her thronelike chair at the head of a long mahogany table, its legs of massive carved gryphonshape shifting restlessly. Against the Prompeian red of the draperies and the bronze walls, Mikal’s olive velvet and yellow eyes were aesthetically displeasing but not altogether inappropriate. He was no longer grey, but boiling with tightly controlled fury.

  At least, fury was the word Clare thought applicable. It could have been rage. Anger was altogether too pale a term for the vibrating, incandescent wrath leaking from his every pore.

  Clare viewed his cream of asparagus soup with a discerning eye, tasted it, and discovered it was superlative. That was no surprise; Miss Bannon did not stint and Cook, like Madame Noyon, appeared to be French. The sideboard was massive but not overpowering; the large greenery in its Chinois-style pots was carefully charmed and rustled pleasingly. The folding screens were marvels of restraint, and he wished for the chance to examine them more closely. The epergne was also a marvel of restraint, its height managing to look graceful and lacy instead of massively overdone.

  Of course, a sorcerer lived as flagrantly as he could, but Miss Bannon’s discriminations appeared to be more in the realm of actual taste and quality, instead of fad and wild freakishness. The silver was of fineness, though plain, the linens snow-white.

  He cleared his throat. “I take it your day was successful, Miss Bannon?”

  “Quite.” She was hoarse, and she flinched slightly as she reached for her water glass. As if her side pained her. “In fact, Mr Clare, I wish to put some questions to you.”

  Oh, I’m certain you do. “I have some questions as well. Shall we interrogate each other over dinner? You are likely to have some entertainment planned for the evening.”

  “If by entertainment you mean conspiracy-hunting and unpleasantness, as a matter of fact, yes.” The circles under her eyes matched the bruising on her face; she winced again as she set her glass down. “I do beg your pardon. I hope my state does not interfere with your digestion.”

  “Madam, almost nothing interferes with my digestion. It is a great advantage to being a mentath.” He savoured a mouthful of soup. “Here is an observation. There is a group of mentaths. Some are killed for one reason. Others are killed for a separate – but connected – reason, and mutilated in some fashion. Smythe had just returned from Indus, as Grayson commented. It makes little sense to think he was involved, unless—”

  “Smythe was not in Indus.” Miss Bannon’s gaze flashed. Did she look amused? Perhaps. “That is where Grayson was told he had gone. In reality, he was in Kent, at a country house owned by the Crown.”

  “Ah.” Clare’s eyelids lowered. He savoured another spoonful. “You had various and sundry reasons for leaving me mewed in your house with your Shield, then, not merely my safety.”

  The barest flash of surprise crossed her bruised face. It looked as if someone had struck her violently, and also tried to throttle her. The marks were fading, her skin rippling a little as the ancient symbols of charter surfaced and dove beneath the paleness. Healing sorcery.

  If he had not had such excellent digestion, the sight might have turned his stomach. Besides, it was ridiculous to let such a thing interfere with one’s repast.

  “I did,” she admitted. “Though you must admit you are safest here, and—”

  “Oh, tell him,” Mikal snarled. “You cannot trust me, so you wander out into Londinium and find yourself a knife to fall on.”

  Clare was hard put to restrain a flash of most unbecoming glee at the rich new vistas of deduction that remark opened.

  “If you will not let me eat my dinner in peace, Shield, you may wait in the hall.” But Miss Bannon did not sound sharp. Only weary.

  The Shield leaned over her shoulder. “What if you had died, Prima? What then?”

  “Then I would be spared this most unwelcome display at the table.” Miss Bannon gazed steadily at Clare. “My apologies, sir. My Shield forgets himself.”

  “I do not forget.” Mikal planted himself solidly, folding his arms. The high carved back of Miss Bannon’s chair did nothing to blunt the force of the ire coming from him. “Such is my curse.”

  “Should you truly wish a curse, Mikal, continue in this manner.” Miss Bannon sampled her soup. Finch appeared, his thin arms bearing a tray with decanters; he busied himself at the sideboard. The footmen came and went, serving with clockwork precision and muffled feet. One of them was missing his left smallest finger, quite an oddity. “Mr Clare. Tomlinson and Smythe were given different… pieces, as it were, of a puzzle. They seemed to be very near to a solution in their respective ways. Masters and Throckmorton were apparently given parts of those separate puzzle pieces, and—”

  You are telling me a carefully chosen tale, which probably bears only kissing relation to the truth. “I have the idea, thank you. What were they researching?” And why were the unregistered mentaths mutilated? You avoid that subject with much alacrity, Miss Bannon.

  “If I were at liberty to disclose that, Mr Clare…” She needed say no more.

  “Very well.” He turned his attention to the soup, momentarily, while deductions assumed a different shape inside his skull. “That rather materially changes things. You are aware of the nature of this puzzle;
Lord Grayson is now too. Which means the Chancellor is suspected, or your orders are from another quarter, or—”

  “Or I am a part of the conspiracy, keeping you alive for my own nefarious reasons. Mr Finch? I require rum. Shocking at dinner, but my nerves rather demand it. Mikal, either sit down at the place laid for you, or go out into the hall. I will not have this behaviour at dinner.”

  “I prefer to wait upon you, my Prima.” It was a shock to see a grown man so mulishly defiant, like a child expecting a spanking.

  “Then you may wait in the hall.” The dishes rattled, the table shifted slightly, and the plants whispered under their charm domes. Clare applied himself more fully to his soup.

  The Shield pulled out the chair to Miss Bannon’s left – the right was reserved for Clare – and a servant hurried forward. Finch brought a carafe and a small crystal glass, poured something Clare’s sensitive nose verified was indeed rum, and Miss Bannon quaffed it smoothly, as if such an operation was habitual.

  Some colour came back into her face – natural colour, not the garishness of bruising. “Thank you, Finch. I shall relate to you the most interesting portions of my day, Mr Clare, since your digestion is so sound, and you shall analyse what I tell you.”

  “Very well.” Clare settled in his chair. The gryphon-carved table legs chose to still themselves, which was a decided improvement. What she told him now would be as close to the truth as she could risk.

  She wasted little time. “Last night a single one of our attackers escaped. I meant to trace his whereabouts after we visited Bedlam, but it was not possible. However, had I not waited for daylight, today’s events might have gone in a very different direction. In any case, I found our attacker had received a protection from a certain sorcerer I am familiar with. I visited said sorcerer’s domicile in Whitchapel and received the information that the man – a flashboy, if you are familiar with the term?”

  “A man of the lower classes. One who has been Altered. Specifically, a type of petty criminal who takes it as a point of pride.” Such men were dangerous. If the Alteration did not make them unstable, the crime they were steeped in would do so. Their tempers were notoriously nasty, and by all accounts extraordinarily short.

  And Miss Bannon had ventured alone into the sink of filth, danger and corruption that was Whitchapel. Most intriguing.

  “Precisely.” Miss Bannon gave a nod of approval, drained another small glass of rum, and the roast chicken was brought in. “I received the information that our flashboy had arrived, requested a protection, paid, and left.”

  “Exactly how much did he pay?”

  “Two gold sovereigns, a guinea, and fivepence. One rather gets the idea he was pressed for time, and that he had so much as a mark of faith from his employer.”

  “It being Whitchapel,” Clare observed, “the fivepence was no gratuity.”

  “No, the sorcerer squeezed for every farthing the flashboy was willing to part with. In any case, I found the flashboy’s doss and persuaded him to give some information before he attacked me. I defended myself – I did not kill him – and in the process, a truly terrible amount of sorcery was triggered on him.” She eyed Clare speculatively, and her colour was indeed better. She set to the roast chicken with a will, and Clare copied her example. “It was old sorcery, the same practitioner as last night’s event in Bedlam. Our flashboy was no sorcerer, so it… the force tore him apart. It was intended to not only do so but also incapacitate any sorcerous visitor so his employer could discover any meddling in his business.”

  “His?”

  “I find it extraordinarily unlikely this is a woman, sir.”

  Clare was inclined to agree, but Mikal could apparently stand it no longer. The Shield stared at the chicken on his plate, the potato balls drenched in golden butter, the scattered parsley, as if it were a mass of writhing snakes. “Injured you? Stabbed you in the lung, and—”

  “Do not interrupt, Mikal.” A line had appeared between Miss Bannon’s arched eyebrows. “I am sure Mr Clare is aware of the extent of my injuries. So, mentath, your analysis, if you please.”

  Clare sampled a potato ball. Most excellent. “I have been reading the papers today. Your hospitality is wonderful, Miss Bannon. The Encyclopaedie was also useful, though I may need some other texts—”

  She waved a hand, her rings sparkling. Fire opals this time, two of them set in heavy bronze and surrounded by what appeared to be tiny uncut diamonds. “Merely inform Mr Finch of your requirements. Analysis, please.”

  “You will not like it.”

  “That does not detract from its validity.”

  “You are a very managing female, Miss Bannon.”

  Thus ensued a very long silence as Clare’s utensils made tiny noises against his plate. The ham arrived and was dealt with, a dish of haricots verts in a sauce full of lemony tang as well. No oysters, but he did not feel stinted.

  It took until the sherbet for him to notice the uncomfortable quality of the silence. At least, a normal person might have called it uncomfortable. It was heavy, cold, and almost… reptilian. The gryphons carved into the table legs shifted, the table’s surface completely level and the fluid motion underneath almost enough to unseat even his stomach.

  The illogic of it bothered him. A table should not move so.

  “My analysis—” he began.

  “Is that I am a ‘managing female’?” Miss Bannon enquired, almost sweetly. The tone alarmed him, and he diverted his attention from the exquisite bone-china sherbet dish.

  He was right to be alarmed, for he noted Mikal had tensed. The Shield’s head was up, and he stared at the sorceress with the leashed expectation of a bloodhound. The sorceress, her curls falling forward, toyed with a small silver spoon, tracing patterns through melting lemon sherbet.

  Aha. We have found a chink in your armour, Sorceress Prime. “Is that you know far more than you are telling me, and hence your invitation to analyse is a trap. I shall at the very best look like an idiot, and at the worst waste precious time.”

  “Indeed.” She settled back in her chair, and the sherbet was whisked away. So was Mikal’s, untouched. “Excuse me. I have preparations to make before I leave the house again. Enjoy your coffee, Mr Clare.” She rose, and Mikal all but leapt upright as well.

  “I do hope I shall be able to accompany you?” Clare pushed his chair back and gained his feet. “Now that you have satisfied yourself that I am not part of this conspiracy?”

  “I have not satisfied myself on that account, sir. But you may accompany me.” She glanced once at Mikal. “I wish you precisely where I may watch you. We shall leave in a half-hour.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Britannia’s Worst

  Emma spent most of that half-hour roaming her study as the swelling on her face retreated, running her fingers along leather-clad spines and attempting to clear her mind. The skull on her desk creaked each time she passed, bone-dust rising and settling along its grinning curves. Mikal, by now well acquainted with this ritual, stood by the door, his hands crossed in a Shield’s habitual pose.

  Scraps covered with her handwriting scattered across the desk as well, different charm and charter symbols, experiments, notes and drawings arranged in a system no other person would be able to decipher. A globe of malachite on a brass Atlas’s straining shoulders spun lazily, a small scraping sound under the rustle of her skirts. The long black drapes moved slightly as well, and witchglobes in heavy bronze cages sputtered, almost sparking and giving out a low bloody light that precisely matched her feelings at the moment.

  The little sounds only underscored Mikal’s silence. She finally halted next to the high-backed, severe leather chairs before the fireplace. Gripped the back of one, her fingers turning white. Her chest ached, so she squeezed harder. Healing sorcery could only do so much, and Mikal’s facility with it was not infinite, though certainly not inconsiderable either.

  The map of the Empire over the fireplace, etched on brass and framed in Ceylon
ebony, glowed with soft golden reflections, showing the passage of sunlight over the Empire’s dominions. The sun indeed never set; Britannia’s sway was wide.

  But even she was not infinite, or invulnerable.

  Emma stared, stiffening her knees, and for a moment she considered retreating behind her walls and doing no more. God knew she had paid enough, over and over, for every scrap she had received.

  But that would be treachery of a different sort, wouldn’t it. To simply leave the Queen without a sorceress willing to do the worst.

  And there was her regrettable pride, raising its head. There might be Primes more powerful than Emma Bannon, and a few more socially acceptable, and perhaps even one or two as loyal. Yet there was no Prime who would sink to the depths she would in service to the current holder of Britannia’s essence.

  Who was, after all, merely a girl who had been thrust on to the throne, and fought with surprising skill and ferocity to free herself from those who would use her.

  Is that why I find myself so inclined to settle in this harness? Emma half turned, uncramping her hand with an effort. The Shield’s gaze met hers.

  What could she say? “Before I left… that was unjustified, Mikal. My temper is… uncertain.”

  A single nod. Perhaps an acceptance of the apology, perhaps simply affirmation of his hearing it.

  Proud to the end, her Shield. At least the past month had taught her that. And today’s events had been rather a slap of cold water. Since the Crawford… affair, she had been simply focused on her service to Britannia. As if working herself into a rag of bone and nervous ætheric force would somehow give her an answer.

  There may not be another time to ask. “Mikal?”

  “Prima.”

  “Why did you do… what you did?” And what is the assurance that you will not violate your Shield oath again, if you judge me as you judged him? Or did you? I do not know enough to guess at the music that moves you.

  Perhaps I should ask Mr Clare to deduce its measures. For a moment, she thought of explaining to a mentath how she had been trapped in chains and a Major Circle not of her devising, close to having her sorcery torn out of her by the roots, and what she had heard as Mikal’s fingers closed around Crawford’s throat. The crackling of little bones, the awful choking noises mixing with her own panicked, ineffectual cries.