Clare freed himself with a violent, wrenching twist, losing his top hat, and made it up to one knee, his freshly loaded silver-chased pepperbox pistol out. Smoke billowed, and Sigmund had regained his breath, to judge by the volume of curses in German coming from his quarter. Already it was difficult to see, smoke stinging Clare’s eyes, and for a terrible moment he was swallowed by the memory of last night’s irrationality.
LOGIC! he bellowed inwardly, jerking to the side as something whooshed through the smoke near his head. Smoke, a body from the ceiling – multiple attackers; the Neapolitan may be injured but I think it unlikely. The smoke is to confuse us.
The motive was not simply murder, he decided. Which raised some interesting questions he had no time to consider, for there was a movement in the smoke. Too tall to be the Italian, and moving incautiously. Do something, Clare!
Sigmund was still cursing.
“Quiet, man!” Clare barked, and his free hand closed around one of Sig’s spanners, dropped next to the spilled chair. He scooped it up and flung it, calculation flashing just under the surface of his consciousness so quickly he was barely aware of the motion. His aim was true; there was a muffled scream of pain, and Clare dived to the side, fetching up against the Bavarian again. “Stay low,” he whispered fiercely, and his busy faculties cross-checked an internal dictionary. “Unten blieben!”
“Ja!” Sig whispered back, and they set off, crawling, away from the coal grate and its belching black smoke. “Verdammt sie! Meine Wurst!”
Better your sausage than your life, man! Clare kept the pistol pointed carefully away. “Crawl! Kriechen!”
“I remember my English, mein Herr!” Damn the man, he actually sounded offended. “My workshop! What do they do with my workshop?”
I only have three shots. Choose them carefully. “Weapons! Do you have any weapons?”
“I haf—” But whatever Sigmund had remained unsaid, for there was a scream and the sound of clattering metal. “No! Scheisse, not my Spinne! Bastard!”
Clare got a fistful of Sig’s jacket, hauling him back. The Bavarian went down in a heap, another dark shape loomed through the acrid smoke, and Clare’s hand jerked at the last moment, sending the shot wide.
“Idioti.” Valentinelli bent down. His shirt was singed, and there was a spatter of blood on one of his pocked cheeks. “Put that away! Come!”
“What is it?” Clare had a fair idea already, but it certainly never hurt to ask.
“Alterato.” His ruined face alight, the assassin held a knife with the blade reversed against his forearm. There was a dark stain on his left knee, whether grease or blood Clare did not wish to venture. “To capture, not kill. This way.”
Flashboys, perhaps. Come to kidnap me or Sig? We shall find out. “Good show. Sig old man—” A fierce whisper. “Sigmund!”
“Aha!” The Bavarian appeared, crawling with surprising nimbleness for such a bulky man; he had found his wurst. He stuffed the remainder of the sausage in his mouth and scrambled after Clare.
The Neapolitan was a wraith in the rapidly thinning smoke, bent almost double and moving with jerky efficiency. One sleeve of his pale shirt flapped slightly; he cast a look over his shoulder at Clare and vanished again, stepping sideways into the vapour. Clare coughed, spat to the side. Bulky metal shapes loomed. Sigmund cursed again, but very low. A scraping sound – Sig had found a weapon.
Good.
His ears strained, eyes burning from the acrid vapour, his left hand scraping on packed earth and scattered straw as he endeavoured to keep the pistol free in his right, Clare realised he had not been bored once since Miss Bannon’s appearance. Which was truly marvellous, and a relief for his busy faculties, but he could still wish things were not quite so bloody interesting.
And why had he thought of her? The crystalline pendant, snug under his shirt, was oddly cold. Was this a dire enough situation to warrant her attention? Probably not. He wished he had thought to find his hat before setting off at a crawl through Sigmund’s workshop—
There was a wet crunching noise, and a soft cry. The smoke, draining in whorls and eddies, had lost none of its terrible stench. He motioned Sigmund aside; a huge metal carapace afforded a slightly safer hiding space. Inside, there was a tangle of sharp poking ends, but Clare pressed back nevertheless, and Sig crowded in beside him.
“Mein Gott, what smell!” he whispered, and Clare was forced to agree.
“Sulphur and agatesbreath, I believe.” Coal doesn’t burn hot enough to ignite it; how did they? Must experiment later. He readied the pistol, torn metal jabbing his jacket. “Be still.”
More soft, stealthy scrapings. A clatter of metal; Sigmund twitched and breathed a rather filthy imprecation. The smoke became striations, behaving oddly, thick and greasy as it slid questing fingers over a broken clockhorse skeleton. The metal vibrated, resonating to a silent current of bloodlust, and Clare watched as a shape melted into view behind a screen of smoke.
He was Altered, but not a flashboy. Lanky, dark-haired, unshaven in ill-fitting grey worsted, he placed his shoes carefully and edged through the smoky fingers, moving with jerky, oily care. The Alteration wasn’t visible, but Clare noted the irregularity under the rough homespun workman’s shirt and his gorge rose. Limbs were all very well, but Alteration of the trunk of the body? Not only was it expensive and dangerous, it was simply wrong.
Sigmund, thankfully, had frozen. Whether he was immobilised by surprise or Teutonic rage was difficult to tell. Clare raised the pistol, the motion slow and dreamlike. The dry stone in his throat was unwelcome; it took effort to shelve the persistent nagging animal fear of being hunted. His mouth was dry, and his pulse pounded alarmingly. His ears heard each muffled beat, blurring together into a distracting roar.
The Altered stiffened, his head tipping back. Valentinelli’s face appeared over his shoulder as his knees slowly buckled; the Neapolitan grabbed a fistful of dark hair and dragged the head back further. A swift jerking motion, then he slit the Altered man’s throat. Arterial spray bloomed, smoke flinched away, and the assassin breathed a soft love word as the Altered slumped.
Valentinelli flicked the knife, bent down to wipe it on his victim’s clothing. Clare lowered his pistol, silver glinting. His head was full of rushing noise.
Why does this disturb me so?
The Neapolitan’s gaze was flat and blank. He looked, for all the world, like a man who was simply performing a mildly disagreeable but not very difficult task. “Bastarde,” he said, softly. “Not even worth pissing on. Come to take Ludo’s job away, eh? Not today. Is safer now,” he continued, not even bothering to glance at the two men hiding like children. “Come out, little polli. Ludo has made it well again.”
Acrid smoke thinned. Clare coughed, finding his eyes welling with hot water and his throat afire. “Sig?” he croaked. “Dreadfully sorry about your workshop.”
“Schweine.” The genius pushed past Clare, brushed himself off. He glared at the dead body, and as the smoke cleared, Clare found other lifeless forms scattered throughout the factory. “My beautiful wurst. And my Spinne. I hope she not damaged.” He fixed Clare with a beady glare. “So, this is the trouble you bring to Papa Baerbarth, my friend? I find you Prussian capacitors. I help you. They pay for this, the Schweinhunde.”
“Good show. I say, Valentinelli, very good.” Clare emerged from the metal carapace, blinking. “Er, who were they after, do you think?” It was vanishingly unlikely they were here for Sig, but thoroughness demanded he ask. And his nerves required a question answered, any question, to steady them.
“Simple.” The Neapolitan resheathed the knife. “If they after fat one there, I let them have him.”
Clare swallowed. The crystalline pendant had warmed again, no longer a chip of cold metal ice under his shirt. His throat was amazingly dry. He could use even some of Sig’s atrocious tea. “I see. Well, I thought as much. Sig, fetch your bag. We’re going capacitor-hunting. Where do we start?”
Sigmund too
k his hat from his round head, dusted it fastidiously, and jammed it back on while setting off for the still smoking grate. “Docks. Always start docks first. Tell me everything.”
The docks of Londinium seethed under a dome of sulphur-yellow fog. Here, the nerve endings of Empire sizzled with goods crated and bundled in every conceivable way, crawling with hevvymancers lifting loads or charming them into balance, sorcery spitting and crackling between the mountains of goods of every stripe, shipwitches wandering among them and laying carpets of charter charms. Tabac, indigo, flour, wine, carpets, chests, tea, coffee, cloth of every colour and description, spread and piled high over miles of timber. More hevvymancers charmed loads off the waiting ships, ship- and saltwitches humming in the rigging and calming restive breezes. The non-sorcerous carters, lifters, haulers, bullies, and half-clad ragged men looking to earn a few coins by shifting and hauling milled, choking the streets; warehouses stood tall and proud with Altered guards – some flashboys, others more serious and soberly modified – watching the crowded streets. No doubt many of them had a thriving trade in embezzlement to pay for their Alterations and the servicing of their metal, too.
They left the brougham and its driver at a nearby livery stable, the driver even more ecstatic that the day’s work was proving so easy. Pressing forward on foot, Clare and Sigmund were soon lost in the crowd. Valentinelli drifted in their wake, and such was the confusion and clangour of Threadtwist Dockside that none remarked the blood on his clothes. To be sure, in the yellow glare it could be any dark fluid fouling him. Still, Clare found it difficult to look at the man.
Sigmund, still bemoaning the loss of his breakfast, kept up a steady stream of banter the entire way. Clare confined himself to non-committal responses, sunk in profound contemplation. He’d told the Bavarian the absolute minimum required, and they were now en route to a place where the tracing of a specific shipment of Prussian capacitors could begin. Miss Bannon’s papers had included an invoice from a certain Lindorm Import Co., Threadtwist Dock, Londinium – an invoice that, when he had examined it after Miss Bannon’s morning departure, had borne surprising fruit: a scrawl under “Rec’d of” he had more than a passing familiarity with.
After all, he had seen it many a time at Yton on Cedric Grayson’s papers. The Chancellor of the Exchequer was involved indeed, and Clare could not wait to share the news with Miss Bannon. A dragon’s word – he shuddered at the thought of the beast, hurried on – might not be acceptable proof to take Cedric to account, but this certainly was. And she had possessed it for who knows how long, without knowing its import.
That was satisfying in and of itself.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Never Aesthetically Lacking
Childe lived on Tithe Street; his wife was in Dublin and happy to remain there with his son. Mrs Childe had probably once thought to domesticate the man, but Primes were not easily tamed, especially one of Dorian’s stripe. Still, she was a sorcerer’s wife now, and did not want for support. At least Childe took care of his own, even if he also threw guineas over the young panthers of Topley like water. Whether he kept Mrs Childe well supplied because she had borne him a son who showed sorcerous promise, or because he had once cared for her, or because it was the decent thing to do, none could say. Emma was most inclined to believe the first, public opinion the second, and none but the extraordinarily naïve held to the last. A small contingent of fashionable opinion aired the view that since Childe was so busy buggering everything that moved, cash sent to Dublin was merely a means of keeping the woman away from his pleasures so she could tend to his son in magnificent seclusion.
Regardless, the Tithe Street house was magnificent; one of Naish’s best, terraced and graceful, it rose for four storeys above the wide avenue, a low stone wall curving around it and containing a froth of gardens generally considered to be some of the finest in Londinium. Mikal paused before the gate as the invisible protections resonated – every knot and twist whispering Childe’s name to the extramundane senses, seashell murmurs of a Prime’s disturbance in the fabric of the real.
Childe was at home. The defences swept aside, a not-quite-shimmering curtain, grandly theatrical like all his gestures. Mikal guided the high-stepping clockhorses on to the drive.
Emma’s cheeks were damp. Achieving the Collegia grounds was one thing, descending was quite another. She blinked furiously, more tears sliding free. The blasted sun, just like everything else, was conspiring to fray her patience today.
Sometimes she wished her Discipline did not give her such an aversion to the daylight. Never for very long, and never very deeply, for on that path lay a danger she was unwilling to court. A Prime should never doubt his Discipline, the saying ran. Still, it would have been bloody lovely to be able to produce a Major Work that did not leave her half blind.
The stairs, a sweep of slick gold-veined marble with knife-sharp edges, marched to a huge crimson door. Only Childe would have such a vulgar thing. The urns lumbering up the steps held scarlet poppies, their blowsy heads nodding in unison, strangely bleached by the yellow cast of sunlight filtering through the fog. The air was deadly still, though a few stirrings promised rain later, perhaps at Tideturn. It might wash the filthy smell from the city, though Emma doubted it.
Inside, it was blessedly dimmer, the vast arching foyer was lit only by a few shafts of golden sunlight and several hissing witchballs in cages shaped like half-open amaryllis. Childe’s long-suffering butler Mr Herndrop bowed, slightly and correctly, as he took the card from Mikal. His indenture collar was lacklustre, but his florid cheeks and nose more than made up for it. “He is in the front parlour, mum. Had quite a night of it.”
It is a wonder he is receiving, then. But Childe very rarely turned her away. “Thank you, Herndrop. How is your arthritis?”
His chest puffed a little – not that it needed to; Herndrop possessed under his butler’s black a barrel organ of a ribcage. “Tolerable, mum, thank you.”
Emma nodded; he did not precede her to the parlour. That could be an indicator either of Childe’s esteem for her, or of his incredibly foul mood. Or both. Besides, stationed at the door leaned a Shield of surpassing lankiness, his chestnut curls trimmed close but his moustache particularly fine.
“Lewis.” Mikal, quiet and polite.
Lewis merely nodded. A flush had begun on his throat; he swallowed visibly. Few Shields would acknowledge Mikal openly now.
Not unless Emma forced them, and today she did not feel the need.
Emma, her skirts gathered and her stride lengthening, made straight for the door – white-painted, gold leaf trimming its rectangular carvings, the knob a carved crystal skull. That was a new addition – previously it had been red curtains and a pasha’s fancy beyond. “Good heavens,” she remarked, “I almost shudder to think of what’s behind the door this time.”
“Mum.” Lewis sounded half strangled, but he reached for the knob anyway. Mikal did not let loose an amused half-chuckle, but it was very close.
The door swept open, bright light stung her eyes afresh, but Emma reached up to pull aside her veil. Childe had redecorated in bordello blue, with a French twist, Louis L’Etat Quatorze with curlicues, slim-legged tables, ormolu, and overstuffed furniture. Leaning on the mantel was a young man; Emma took him in at a glance and sighed internally. The loud coat, soft white hands, and scented hair all screamed a St Georgeth panther, brought home with Childe’s usual utter lack of propriety or even good sense. This particular one had a fresh face still clinging to youth, but the sullen expression – no doubt charming when he was a lad – marred whatever remained of his attractiveness. He gave Emma an insouciant look, curling his lip and his little finger, and she suppressed a flash of irritation.
“Well!” Dorian Childe, sleek-haired, heavy-lipped, and one of the more powerful Primes of the Empire, was in a violently patterned green and black kimono, but his toilette was otherwise immaculate. “If it isn’t my dearest Emma. Are you here for tea, or is this another of you
r flying visits?”
Emma gave him her hands, an unwonted smile curving her lips. A tear trickled from the corner of her right eye, and he tut-tutted. “How silly of me. Here, darling—” A Minor Word slid free of his mouth, his lips shaping the sibilants sensually, and the indigo drapes freed themselves from their ropes, falling gracefully across the windows. The witchballs darkened, and the young man at the fireplace shivered. “Is that better? You must have had a morning of it. Come, sit down.”
“I am here to plunder your library, Dorian. I see you’ve redecorated.”
“You hate it, I can tell. Not all of us have your restraint, my darling. Still carrying your baggage around, I see.” But his bright darted glance at Mikal held no malice. Just predatory interest, and Emma did not miss the reined distaste spreading from her Shield.
“Oh, don’t start.” Her shoulders relaxed, fractionally. Childe, at least, was a monster whose loyalty was not in question. Rather like a gryphon. “I saw Huston this morning. Do you know what charm he uses to colour his hair?”
“Whatever it is, I am certain it’s dreadful. Do come and sit down; the library can wait a few moments while you refresh yourself. Paul, be a dear and fetch some tea. Cook knows what we like.”
“I ent yer lady’s maid,” the panther at the fireplace sneered, but he peeled himself fully upright and slouched towards the door.
“Delicious, isn’t he?” Childe stage-whispered. “And so tractable. At least, at this stage.”
“You’ll get a knife in the ribs one of these days,” Emma murmured, as the tractable Paul banged the parlour door shut. “Where are your Shields?”
Childe magnanimously didn’t note that said knife would have to be applied while he was insensible not to earn its wielder a terrible sorcerous death, but the arch of his eyebrows and flare of his nostrils remarked for him. “Oh, around and about. You’re a fine one to talk. I could give you Lewis, he’s grown quite disapproving. Or even Eli. A lovely young thing like yourself shouldn’t be wandering alone.”
The Iron Wyrm Affair: Bannon and Clare: Book 1 Page 17
