The Iron Wyrm Affair

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “She thinks to protect you.” The Shield lowered himself into the chair across the fire, sat bolt upright, his hands resting on his knees. His long grey coat, buttoned all the way to the neck, did nothing to hide the muscle underneath. Outside the window, Londinium continued its morning roil under a blue spring sky lensed with coal-smoke fog. Shafts of smoke and steam rose; the note of copper from the Themis told Clare there would be clouds by afternoon and fog tonight. “Since the Queen, via Lord Grayson, consigned you to her care.”

  “Fetching concern,” Clare murmured, puffing on his pipe, his eyes half lidding. The mournfulness of his features was accentuated by this manoeuvre. “Tell me, Mr Mikal—”

  “Just Mikal.” The man’s chin lifted slightly.

  Aha. Jealous of our pride, are we? “Mr Just Mikal, how many Shields does a sorcerer of Miss Bannon’s stature – that is to say, a Prime – normally employ?”

  Mikal considered this. His short hair was mussed, as if he had run his hands through it. When he visibly decided the information could do no harm, he finally responded. “A half-dozen is the normal minimum, but my Prima keeps her own counsel and does as she pleases. She had four Shields some time ago, and… well. It is a dangerous occupation.”

  “Four Shields. Before you?”

  “Yes.” Mikal’s face visibly closed. Clare could almost hear the snap. Most interesting.

  “And she has been chasing this conspiracy…”

  “Three days. Sir. Since she was called to examine a mentath’s body in situ—”

  “That would be Tomlinson, I take it. The first to die.”

  “The first she was called to examine.” Those yellow eyes glittered. Their colour seemed much more pronounced now, as the Shield gave Clare his attention.

  Very good. You are not stupid, nor do you assume much. “Your lady suspects there must be more.”

  “She has not seen fit to share her thoughts with me.”

  Well. This is a pleasant game. “We will get exactly nowhere should you continue being obstreperous.”

  “Or should you continue seeking to bait me.”

  An extraordinary hypothesis presented itself. Clare held his silence for a long moment, puffing at his pipe. Hooves and wheels rumbled outside through the city’s arteries, an ever-present muted Londinium song. “You do not trust me.”

  A single shrug.

  “It has occurred to you – or perhaps to Miss Bannon – that a mentath, or more than one, may be involved in this conspiracy not just as a victim, but as a conspirator.”

  Another shrug.

  Well. You are even less stupid than I initially supposed. “May we at least for the moment proceed under the assumption that I am not, supported by the evidence that I have been almost murdered in the past twenty-four hours?”

  A grudging nod.

  Well, that’s half the distance to Noncastel. “Many thanks, sir. So. Start at the beginning, and tell me what occurred from the moment our dear sorceress was called from her usual work – which no doubt involved driving herself to exhaustion – to the scene.”

  Mikal gazed at him for a long moment. Thoughts moved behind that yellow gaze, and the planes of his face took on a sharper cast. “My Prima was called to a house at Elnor Cross; she arrived to find the body of a mentath and fading marks of sorcery. The attending forensic sorcerer had blurred several traces and my Prima was in a fine mood—”

  “No, no.” Clare waved his pipe. Sweet smoke drifted, taking angular shapes as if it sensed the tension radiating from the other man. His colouring was not nearly dark enough to be Tinkerfolk, Clare decided. Indus, most likely, but the shape of his cheekbones was… odd. “The house, first. Precisely where is it located? Give me the street address and the number of rooms, then describe to me which room the body was in. Then you will give me the name of the sorcerer, and only then proceed to our Bannon’s arrival and what transpired then.”

  Mikal blinked. “You wish for a Recall, then?”

  How very interesting. “A Recall?”

  “A sorcerer may need to use a Shield’s eyes. There are two ways of doing so, a Glove and a Recall. We are trained to observe and offer only what we have observed. That is Recall.”

  The fascinating question of just what a “Glove” consisted of could occupy him another time, Clare decided. “Very well, then. May I question you during the process, or must I save my questions for afterwards?”

  A single economical movement. “Save them. You do not know how to question properly.”

  I doubt you would teach me to do so, sir. Clare puffed on his pipe again. The tobacco was fine, and for a moment he considered a fraction of coja to sharpen his faculties. Discarded the notion – for if he paused, he suspected Mikal might think better of this offer. “Very well. Proceed when you are ready, sir, and I shall pay most close attention.”

  Tomlinson was found slumped in a heavy armchair, his dressing jacket unwrinkled, no visible sign of foul play. It seemed a routine case of apoplexy – not common in mentaths, but also not unheard of, the logical patterns of the brain snarling and melting, stewing in irrationality. Tomlinson, however, was busy amid several cases that should have kept his faculties sufficiently exercised.

  The attending Master Sorcerer, a certain Hugh Devon, seemed surprised when Miss Emma Bannon made her appearance as the Crown’s representative. He seemed even more surprised when she took him to task for smearing the delicate ætheric traceries rumbling and resonating inside the room: “Bumbling like an idiot; now we cannot rule out foul play!”

  At which point Mr Devon turned apoplectic-red himself, sputtered, and one of his Shields – a tall, lean blond man – stepped forward. Mikal had merely watched. Miss Bannon had arched one elegant eyebrow. “Leave.” Just the one word, but it cut through the other sorcerer’s sizzling and transformed the air in the overcushioned sitting room to ice.

  Devon and his pair of Shields quit the room, and once they did, Mikal watched as his Prima stalked to the bookcase and pulled free three redrope folders, of the sort solicitors and barristers used. She checked them, one eye on Tomlinson’s stocky corpse, and suddenly fixed her own Shield with a searching gaze. “He is without his slippers, Mikal.”

  She was correct. A pair of tattered woollen socks clasped the mentath’s limp feet.

  “And I cannot even question his shade, for that fool Devon has tangled everything beyond repair. Come, Mikal. We must examine the room and then seek out the Chancellor; there is something odd afoot.”

  Masters the Elder, shot on Picksadowne Street between numbers 14 and 15½; there were no witnesses to speak of. Certainly there were onlookers, but none would swear to a description of the shooter. In that part of town, that was very little mystery. The mystery lay in what on earth Masters was doing there, and why he was shot three times – once to the heart, and two bullets shattering his skull. Which meant his shade could not be questioned either, Miss Bannon noted aloud to her Shield.

  Very interesting indeed.

  Smythe was stabbed near Nightmarket, just before Tideturn. Again, onlookers but no witnesses, and by the time Miss Bannon had arrived his body had been picked clean – and the ætheric traces were smudged as well. It could have been by the pickers; rare was the corpseduster who wished to be found guilty of such a thing.

  The sorcerer set to watch Smythe, a certain Mr Newberry, was nowhere to be found. Miss Bannon had commanded Mikal to stand guard over the body and disappeared into the nearby alley, emerging startlingly pale. She did not grant him leave to view the alley for himself, but he did see bodies carried forth from it when help arrived.

  He could not swear they were Shields, yet…

  Throckmorton’s house was still blazing when they arrived. Miss Bannon had quelled the fire with surprising difficulty, sorcery fuelling the twisting flames and fighting her control. A crimson salamander, its forked tongue flickering white-hot, had launched itself at Mikal’s Prima, and he had killed it. Its ashes, treated with vitae, glowed blue, proving it had
been controlled. Which made the fire sorcerous in origin, and the entire chain of events began to take on a disturbing cast. Throckmorton’s corpse was corkscrewed and charred, flesh hanging in ribbons. Either the salamander had been feasting on his remains, or he had been tortured before his death.

  Or both. The heat-shattered skull and cooked brain meant his shade could not be questioned either, and that put the sorceress in a fine mood as well.

  The Prime who was to be watching the unfortunate Throckmorton, Llewellyn Gwynnfud, was found causing a scene in a Whitchapel brothel, gibbering and Shieldless, and transported to Bedlam by a contingent of nervous hieromancers. And then the first dead unregistered mentaths were found, their bodies terribly mutilated, and Miss Emma Bannon’s temper had passed beyond uncertain to downright combative.

  She had begun, it seemed, to take something personally.

  “Most interesting.” Clare relit his pipe. “And did Miss Bannon also search Throckmorton’s house?”

  “Thoroughly. What little was left of it.”

  Mutilated if unregistered. How unpleasant. His skin briefly chilled, and he set the thought aside. There were other questions to answer first. “And… you will pardon my asking, but what is Miss Bannon’s Discipline? Every sorcerer has a Discipline, correct?”

  Mikal nodded. His straight-backed posture was the same, but his face had eased slightly. “Yes.”

  “And Miss Bannon’s is…”

  Mikal’s mouth turned into a thin straight line.

  Do not insult my intelligence. “Oh come now, man. If I had not guessed her to be one of the Black, I would have to be thick indeed. A sorcerer does not so cavalierly mention questioning shades unless their Discipline overlaps with the Black, correct?”

  It was not so outré a guess. Sorcerers were not overly social, but Miss Bannon seemed standoffish even by their standards. She behaved as a woman who was accustomed to having others fear her, and Cedric Grayson had turned pale and sweating. The three branches of sorcery were supposedly all equal, but whispers swirled about the Grey, and swirled even further about the Black. Nothing concrete, certainly… but something could be inferred even from rumour.

  Another small, grudging nod from the Shield.

  Clare had to restrain a sigh. “I am not one of the callow multitudes, Mr Mikal. Logic dictates that the service of Britannia’s incarnation must hold those the common man perceives to be dangerous. Miss Bannon may be exceeding dangerous, but she is not an ogress, and she does not represent a danger to me. I ask about her Discipline only to clarify a point or two to myself and to found my chain of deduction on solid—”

  “She is of the Black.” Mikal propelled himself to his feet. “There. You know now, mentath. Tread carefully. She is my Prima. If you threaten her, I shall find ways to make you regret it.”

  Threaten her? Clare lowered his pipe. “Who was Crawford?” The name was common, but something nagged at his memory. A recent scandal, perhaps?

  The colour drained from Mikal’s face, leaving him ashen under the copper. His eyes lit, venomous yellow irises glowing. One hand twitched, a subtle movement.

  Clare tensed. He was no match for the Shield, but the sorceress’s orders were for Clare to be unharmed.

  At least, he assumed those were her orders. The threat of some dire consequence that would leave Clare physically unmarked was not to be taken lightly.

  “Crawford.” The ghost of an accent tinted the word. “He was the first man I killed for her.” Mikal’s tongue darted out, wetted his thin lips. “He was not – and shall not be – the last.”

  And with that, the Shield stalked across the room, swept the door open, and stepped into the hall. He would stand guard there, probably the better to keep his temper.

  Dead, then. This requires thought. Clare puffed on his pipe. A slight smile played about his mouth. A very successful chain of deduction, far more data than he’d had before, and much was now clearer about Mikal the Shield.

  What an extraordinarily diverting morning this was proving to be.

  Chapter Nine

  The Abortionist

  Tideturn had laid smoking gossamer fabric over the traces of the ætheric protection on last night’s luckily escaped assassin. Emma clasped her hands before her, lowering her head as she concentrated, invisible threads singing as she handled them so, so delicately. There was joy to be found in the complexity of such an operation, her touch deft and quick.

  Like the scales on a butterfly’s wings, the imprint of a sorcerer’s work on the fabric of the visible world fluttered. Her memory swallowed the pattern whole, comparing it to the thick ætheric tangles laid over Llewellyn Gwynnfud last night.

  There was no overlap. Well, it was hardly a surprise that more than one sorcerer was involved in this.

  The climax of last night’s events bothered her, though. She should have been able to guess the irregularities in the charm and charter symbols would act so vigorously, and perhaps taken steps to keep Llewellyn alive for further questioning.

  But you did not, Emma. Was it because the thought of him dead did not distress you at all? It is rather a relief, isn’t it? Come now, be honest.

  Well, if she had to be absolutely honest, she would have preferred snuffing Llewellyn’s candle herself. Yet another unfeminine trait. Or was the desire to be thorough and tidy so unladylike? Llew had been a loose end.

  He had almost certainly suspected what had happened in Crawford’s round room, and further suspected that Emma would be vulnerable. He was far too dangerous to possess knowledge of a weakness of that magnitude.

  It is well that he is dead, and we have business with the living. She returned to herself, shaking her head slightly. The alley was piled with refuse, and if not for the air-clearing charm every Londinium sorcerer with any talent learned early and used religiously, it would be easily ripe enough to turn her stomach. The cobbles underfoot were coated with slick foulness, and she edged forward cautiously.

  There. She caught sight of a gleam – a copper disc and a broken ribbon, tossed aside as soon as it was used. Oh, you idiot, whoever you are. Bless your stupidity, for you have given me an opening.

  Here in the sunlight, without a single Shield, she would have to use all appropriate caution. She picked her way over the slimy stones, keeping her breathing even with an effort. Sarpesson Street was quieter at this hour, but traffic still rumbled past, whipcracks and clockwork sparks echoing oddly in the alley’s choked confines.

  He came down there, triggered the protection, flung it away. Hard to see in the dark, and hoping the refuse would cover it. Then… where would he go?

  She bent, her stays digging briefly even though she was only loosely corseted – there was fashion and there was idiocy, and while she was vain enough to love the former, she was not willing to indulge the latter. A stray shaft of weak sunlight pierced the alley’s roof, buildings sloping together alarmingly overhead, and even that was enough to jab at her sensitised eyes.

  Blast and bother. She tweezed the ribbon carefully between gloved fingers and slowly straightened, holding the protection disc stiff-armed away from her body as it glowed dully. The charm had been well made, even though its physical matrix was flimsy and disposable. It was at the very least the work of a Master Sorcerer, and as she examined it more closely, Emma realised it was familiar.

  She breathed a term a respectable lady would faint upon hearing, then cast a squinting glance over her shoulder as if someone might witness her lapse. No, the alley was deserted. So why the sudden sense of being observed, lifting the fine hairs on her nape and tingling down her spine under the drab brown velvet?

  Proceed very carefully indeed, Emma. He is bound to guess you will show up at his door, unless you are dead.

  And Konstantin Serafimovitch Gippius would not trust a rumour of Emma Bannon’s demise until he could see her mutilated body.

  Perhaps not even then.

  Even this early in the day, Whitchapel seethed with a crush of stinking humanity – r
agpickers, pickpockets, loiterers, day labourers, streetmerchants, hevvymancers and drays, public houses doing a brisk trade in cups of gin and tankers of beer, washerwomen and ragged drabs, stray sparks and flicks of charm and sorcery crackling along the filthy street. Pawnbrokers’ coloured signs flashed with catchcharms, their infrequent windows glowing with lightfinger wards and their doors reinforced. Clockhorses strained and whinnied, shouts and cries echoed, and the entire squeezing, throbbing mass teemed not only with the living but the vaporous dead. Ragged children darted through the crowd; at the corner of Dray Street and Sephrin a cart carrying a load of barrels lay sideways, a man lying groaning, half crushed under one side and the onlookers jostling to get a better view as a gang of labourers – not a hevvymancer in sight – struggled to heave the cart away. Clockwork horses screamed, their gears grating and sorcerous energy spilling dangerously uncontrolled.

  It would have taken mere moments to restore some order, but any disturbance of the æther here would warn her quarry.

  The carter will be dead within a quarter-hour anyway, she told herself sternly as she threaded through the crowd, the cameo at her throat warming as thin filaments of glamour turned her into anything other than a respectable woman sliding into Whitchapel. The greater good of all demands I do not become distracted here.

  Still, the screams and moans rang in her ears as she turned on Thrawl, slowing as a press of human flesh choked about her. A pickmancer’s nimble fingers brushed for her skirt pocket, but her sardonyx ring sparked and the touch was hurriedly drawn back. A raddled drab, her ruined face turned up to the morning light and runnelled with decaying powder, sang nonsense in a cracked unlovely alto, while a mob of flashboys whooped near the low sooty entrance of the Cross and Spaulders, their draggled finery sparking slightly with sartorial charms. Alterations gleamed – any flashboy worth the name would have an amendment, the more visible the better. One had a blackened clockwork hand that spat sparks from its hooked fingers, another a green-glass eye rolling in an exposed, bony socket. Cheap work, that, but this was Whitchapel.