The Iron Wyrm Affair: Bannon and Clare: Book 1

by Lilith Saintcrow

  If I had, sir, you would already be attempting to kill me, blood oath or no. “By no means, signor. Do you know what the most incredible part of young Becker’s tale is?”

  The Neapolitan’s answering oath expressed that he cared not a whit, and Sigmund’s florid face was suddenly drawn and grey as he witnessed this. The worthy Bavarian’s hand was hidden in his coat pocket, probably preparatory to bringing forth his trusty clasp knife, and Clare decided he had best smooth the waters. People were so difficult.

  “The incredible part, sir, is that young Becker is still alive.” He met Valentinelli’s gaze squarely. “Which means the feared Shadow of the Tower of Londinium is the least of our worries, for our greatest is whoever may be watching a hevvymancer or two, to see if they speak. Or to pay them for reporting any enquiries made about a certain load of goods. Or – and this is the idea I find most unsettling, sir – their plan is so near fruition they care very little about any hound on their trail.”

  The assassin halted. His pocked face was still and set, but the rigidity of his jaw had eased, and so did his hand upon Clare’s arm.

  Clare nodded, once. “You see. Very good. Come, my noble Neapolitan. I do need to think, and I’d prefer to do it somewhere a touch more comfortable.” He paused. “And perhaps more defensible as well.”

  The Tower of Londinium was actually a collection of towers, held back from crashing down on the city by the grey arms of the Sorrowswall clutching at each rising spire. The White Tower rose above them all, sorcerously sheathed in glittering pale marble, bloody-hued charter symbols sliding in rivulets down its sides. Traitors met their end here, and those criminals judged too noble to be hanged at a common gaol. The fetid moat ran with murky oilsheen, and under its surface rippled … something. Rumour hotly disputed what beast it was, but all agreed it ate the bodies after the beheadings, and the heads sometimes after the showing.

  And, occasionally, it took live prey.

  But it wasn’t the Dweller in the Moat Londinium’s masses feared. It was the Shadow.

  Sometimes it wreathed the towers, slinking along the walls, slithering down to brush the surface of the moat’s oily water. It was not fog, or cloud – it was simply dark dank grey, and it prowled the neighbourhood of the Tower as a silent lumbering beast. Charm and charter did not hold it back – only a Master Sorcerer or above could make it seek elsewhere, by some means they kept hidden behind closed mouths.

  Sorcerers disliked the Tower’s environs too – the misery and death soaking it, perhaps. The quietest places in Londinium were under the Shadow’s heel. Still, there were those who sought it as a sanctuary – those who needed to be certain of the law’s reluctance to follow them.

  Or those whose Alterations had gone badly. It was against the Tower’s walls that the Morloks lived. During the day, one did not need to fear them overmuch.

  Fortunately, the Shadow’s grey bulk was clinging raggedly to the White Tower as the afternoon’s yellow glare wore on. The light through the fog had deepened, the northern quarter of the sky bruising with weather approaching. It might almost, Clare thought, be a relief if rain would sweep in. Except in rainy weather, one could not be so sure of the Shadow’s movements.

  The warehouse Becker had described on Lower Themis Street, the Sorrowswall visible even over its bulk, was indeed black. Clare studied the structure as Sigmund burped contentedly. Feeding the Bavarian to make up for his thwarted breakfast had also given the mentath an opportunity to collect himself and smoke his pipe, and Valentinelli had applied himself to a quantity of coarse fare at a run-down public house a good distance from Becker’s lodging. The dark, crowded interior had not been ideal, but at least Clare had gathered his wits and forced the spectre of agitation threatening his nerves away for a short while. The brougham driver would not approach the Tower this closely, and was left a few streets away, well satisfied with a tot of gin and a generously packed basket of dinner purchased at the pub with more of Miss Bannon’s guineas.

  The warehouse’s stone walls had perhaps once been grey, but a patina of coal dust had packed itself on the rough surfaces. Normally the rain would streak such a building with runnels of acid-eaten paleness, but as Clare gazed, he caught a shimmer in the air around it.

  Sorcery.

  Valentinelli had either noticed it at the same moment he did, or waited for Clare’s expression to change. “Maleficia.” His pocked face wadded itself up theatrically. “We wait for la strega, ci?”

  “Miss Bannon has other difficulties.” Clare did not see any reason to tell the assassin of the conclusions he had reached concerning Miss Bannon’s likely availability to appear and deal with problems of a sorcerous nature. “Do you think we may enter that building? Is it possible?”

  Valentinelli squinted. “Ci.” He rubbed at his forearm, meditatively, and Clare deduced there was a knife hidden in his sleeve. “But not for long, eh? Is work of large, very big stregone. Very nasty.”

  “Oh, I thought as much.” Clare tapped at his left-hand breeches pocket, almost unaware of the motion. The tiny metal box of coja was safely stowed, and he felt soothed, even if the pendant under his throat was warming alarmingly. “Sig, this may be a bit dodgy. Are you sure you—”

  “I go home, mein Herr, perhaps they try again? And not so politely.” The Bavarian rolled his broad shoulders back in their sockets. “Is very interesting, this business of capacitors.”

  “Oh, very interesting indeed. Well, gentlemen, no time like the present.”

  Forcing a door was almost anticlimactic. Valentinelli sniffed, declared the shimmer in the air only dangerous to sorcerers, and stepped through. Two kicks and rotted wood shattered, he peered inside. “Eh. Come.”

  They plunged into a thick dimness, the dust and the smell of oiled metal mixing with an odd reek. The pendant was red-hot now; logic told Clare it would not burn him, and he kept his hand away from his chest with an effort. Sigmund choked back a series of mighty sneezes, managing to be almost as loud as if he had allowed them free rein. A close, clotted-dark hallway led along the outer wall for ten paces, then abruptly terminated, and the warehouse space bloomed, lit only by a few weak shafts of yellow Londinium glow stabbing down from high, papered holes in the roof.

  They stood in serried ranks, each shrouded in canvas, slump-shouldered shapes three times as high as a man and broad as a shay. Two protuberances gleaming of metal peeked out from under each sheet of canvas, and Clare blinked fiercely, deducing. I wonder—

  But there was no time for wondering. There was a fluttering motion atop one of the mysterious shapes. A small, definite click echoed through the dimness, and an unfamiliar male voice broke the hush.

  “Move, and I shoot.”

  Clare’s smile was broad – and, he hoped, invisible in the bad lighting. He lifted his own pistol, and noted, without any surprise at all, that Valentinelli had once again disappeared. “Mr Cecil J. Throckmorton, I presume?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Introductions Can Wait

  The curricle was left at Childe’s excellent stable, and Bannon was glad she’d found her fellow Prime in a good mood. For not only did she have another Shield, but Childe had also pressed the use of a smart ivy-coloured landaulet on her; drawn by white and silver clockhorses, it was a darling little vehicle that had an absolutely bone-rattling ride. It mattered little at this speed.

  For she had a rather pressing idea that Clare was in some trouble. The Bocannon she had given him was uneasy, scenting harmful sorcery in his vicinity and twitching the fine invisible thread tied to her consciousness. Which meant that, like a dach’s-hund down a rathole, Archibald Clare had flushed prey she was interested in and would soon have a snout in dire danger of clawmarks.

  Eli drove, and handled the carriage rather well. “Serene” was an understatement – the Shield looked half asleep, and only the grip of his hands on the reins betrayed him as, indeed, alert. His hair combed back from his face in the sulphurous breeze, the air bringing colour to his cheeks
, and Mikal on her other side was a red and black thundercloud of tightly leashed frustration.

  Serves him right. But she could not fault him overmuch. She was, indeed, a spectacular failure at femininity – except in the area of weakness. For last night had been merely that. Had she been born a man …

  What? Had you been born a man, you would be Llewellyn. That is what drew you to him, was it not? Deep down, Emma, you do not care.

  Then why did she put herself to this trouble?

  Enough. Think of what you will do when you reach the man you sent scurrying off with only Valentinelli to protect him. The situation has changed somewhat, even without the addition of a dragon so old he slept even before the Age of Flame. If the Duchess and Conroy have their fingers in this, it is not likely to end well. Victrix will not thank me if I injure – or, God forbid, murder – her mother, even if she hates the woman and Britannia would more than likely approve.

  The thin, fine invisible thread twitched again, more definitely this time. Her gloved hand flashed out, and a witchball sizzled into being. Her concentration narrowed as the globe of brilliance sped forward, settling in front of the clockhorses. Stray sparks of sorcery crackled, and traffic on the avenue drew away like water retreating from oil. Eli’s chin dipped slightly, a fractional nod, and Emma settled back, impatience thinly controlled as the Shield piloted the juddering vehicle in the witchball’s wake. The invisible strand twitched once more, more definitely, and the Bocannon she had given the mentath woke fully.

  Clare was indeed in a great deal of trouble. Tideturn was approaching, and traffic was thick. Even with a Shield pressing the horses onwards and a free witchball before them warning all Londinium that a sorcerer was in a hurry, she would likely be too late.

  The warehouse slumped under a bruise-ugly yellowgreen sky, banks of opaque fog drawing back as thunder rumbled uneasily. A storm coming up the Themis, perhaps, or a deeper unsettling. The elegant, powerful shell of sorcery laid over the building to disguise it would have been enough to make Emma’s gaze simply slide past – if the Bocannon had not already been inside, and had she not been gripping Mikal’s arm so tightly her fingers ached.

  There!

  The witchball sizzled, gathering momentum as Eli hauled back on the reins, Mikal flowing half upright, the veil plastered to Emma’s damp face and stormlight prickling her tender eyes. Thunder rattled again, far to the north. The witchball arrowed forward, splashing into the glimmering not-quite-visible shield over the slumping warehouse, and fine silver traceries flashed, digging into the coaldust-sheathed sides. The horses pranced, more sparks snapping, and the landaulet jolted to a stop. Emma was already moving, gathering her skirts, and Mikal had anticipated her. His boots hit the hard-packed dirt, he turned; his hands were at her waist and he lifted her down in one motion.

  “Clare!” she snapped. “Find him, and protect him!”

  A single yellow-fuming glance, and he was gone. One of the smaller warehouse doors had been broken in – Valentinelli, she would lay money on it – and the other Shield was suddenly beside her as she ran breathlessly in Mikal’s wake.

  The building shuddered as the defences on it woke fully, cracks veining the coaldust casing as she fed more force through the erstwhile witchball. An unsecured globe of sorcerous energy was difficult to control – but it was also plastic, and it reacted to the sudden cramping of the defences with a vengeance. Londinium fog flushed as the sun dipped, another peal of thunder resounded, and the coaldust cracked, shivering away from grey stone just before Mikal nipped smartly through the door in search of Clare.

  Emma plunged into a close, stinking passageway, her eyes suddenly relieved of the burden of bright light and picking out details in the flimsy wooden walls. She skidded out into the warehouse itself, her skirts all but snapping as Eli’s hand closed around her arm and gave a terrific, shoulder-popping yank.

  The Shield pivoted, pulling her to the side as something crashed into the wooden archway they had just cleared. The earth shook, and Emma groped to find the source of the attack. It was not sorcerous, she realised, just as Eli shoved her aside again and gave a short sharp yell.

  What in God’s—

  It rose from wooden wreckage, gleaming and mechanical, its oddly articulated arms creaking as the man closed in its casing let out a piercing shriek of unholy glee. Emma screamed, terror seizing her, and sorcerous force struck. It was a blind, instinctive assault, force spent recklessly, and it had precious little effect.

  The mechanical casing hunched, eerily mimicking the movements of the man inside it. The head was a smooth dome, its shoulders high so it shambled and slouched; its feet were oval cups. Cogs whirred and ground. Oil dripped from shining metal, and the thing screeched like a hound from brimstoned Hell.

  The man shook his head, cogs sparking and grinding as the casing’s domed top replicated the movement. It looked like a squat, bronze bald frog, especially as the controller sank back and it bent its oversized knees. The arms came up, fuming smoke pouring from the left, and a large hole pointed straight at her.

  “Hiiiiiiii!” The yell came from a human throat, but a grinding rumble swallowed the last of it. A metallic gleam lurched, and Emma’s faculties almost deserted her as a second monstrosity shambled forward, its stubby arms rising in a weirdly graceful arc. The first thing’s left-hand barrel was knocked skywards, a deafening roar sounded, and a hole opened in the roof. Stormlight poured in, and the sorcerous defences cracked yet further, sagging.

  Emma backpedalled blindly, scrambling, her legs tangled in her skirts and her veil torn, her hat knocked askew, curls falling in her face. Eli yanked her again, and her abused shoulder flared with dull red pain. She realised she was screaming, could not help herself. The thing was not sorcerous; her mental grasp could not close around it and crush it. It simply shunted the force aside, spending it uselessly, and fresh terror clawed at her vitals.

  The right-hand barrel lowered, pointing at her. The man inside the casing laughed, shrilly. There was a flicker of movement, bright knives lifted, and Mikal’s feet slipped, seeking vainly for purchase on the thing’s domed head. He fell, but twisted catlike in mid-air, and the knives flashed again as he drove both at the chest of the thing’s internal rider. They missed, one skittering across the glowing golden disc; it cracked and fizzed, bleeding sparks.

  The second metal abomination staggered, its dome head swivelling. But it lurched forward, and knocked aside the second gun just as it spoke.

  Confusion. A massive noise, a geyser of dirt and splinters. And something else, invisible threads tightening.

  The sorcerer was in the shadows, and she could sense his Shields. She recognised him just as Mikal hit the ground, curling and springing up. She saw messy tangled hair, fingers curled into a half-recognised Gesture, charter symbols spitting venomous crimson as they roiled between his palms.

  Kill his Shields. Don’t kill him. You need him alive for questioning, and he is only—

  But before she could finish the thought, he cast the bolt of crimson charter charm. He could not have expected it to hold her or even damage her, for he immediately lunged backwards – but Eli knocked into her from the side as a flash of gunpowder igniting added to the confusion, driving the breath from her in a sharp huff and killing the chant rising to her lips.

  One of the sorcerer’s Shields had fired a pistol. And Mikal was otherwise occupied.

  Gears screeched, grinding, and the falling-cathedral noise of a sorcerer’s death filled the factory. No! No, don’t kill him, I need him for questioning, Mikal!

  Something atop her, pressing down. She struggled, treacherous skirts suddenly chains, her wrists caught in a bruising grip. “Pax!” someone yelled in her ear, her head ringing and swimming. “Pax, Prima!”

  She went limp, ribs flickering as they heaved with deep drilling breaths.

  What was that? Dear God, what was that?

  Eli rolled aside, and as he pulled her to her feet Emma stared at the slumped mountain of met
al. Its chest was empty now, the golden circle dead and cracked, lifeless. Shouts and clashing metal, Mikal’s hissing battle cry rising over the din.

  The second thing clicked, humming as its arms lowered, and Archibald Clare, his lean face alight with glee, hung inside its chest. It replicated his movements uncannily, a glowing golden circle strapped to his chest like a flat witch-ball. The glow threw his features into sharp relief, his hair blew back, and the metal structure around him creaked and shuddered.

  The circle of light dimmed. Mikal appeared, glanced at Clare inside the metal abomination, visibly decided he was not a threat, and turned on his heel. Stopped, staring at Emma, whose knees were decidedly not performing their function of holding her up with their usual aplomb and reliability. Eli held her arm, not hard but very definitely, bracing her.

  The light at Clare’s chest snuffed itself. “Most …” The mentath’s speech slurred. “Most intrig— Oh, hell.”

  Ludovico Valentinelli, singed and bleeding, appeared out of the gloom. A stolid older man with massive side whiskers also appeared, and Emma blinked. What in God’s name just happened here? What are those … things?

  “Sig!” Clare sounded drunk, or perhaps so exhausted his lips were numb. “Come … damn straps, man. Help me.”

  “Ja.” The stranger, his whiskers half singed as well, climbed up the metal man-thing with quick dexterity. He began fiddling with the straps holding Clare inside it, and the mentath sighed wearily, closing his blue eyes.

  Emma told herself firmly that now was not the time to engage in a screaming fit, or a swoon, though both would indeed be very welcome.

  “Are you well?” Mikal was suddenly before her, his face inches from hers. “Prima? Emma?”

  “Sorcery does not affect it,” she managed, in nothing like her usual tone. “Dear gods. Sorcery did not even touch it.”

  That caught Clare’s attention. “Rather … regrettable … side effect.” The words slurred together alarmingly. Had the man been at gin? If he had, Emma rather hoped he had saved some. She could do with a tot of something stronger than tea at the moment.