The Iron Wyrm Affair: Bannon and Clare: Book 1

by Lilith Saintcrow

  The crowd, in short, was immense, even at this dark and early hour. Some indirect questioning brought the news that the Srkány, sailing from Old Emsterdamme, had indeed docked.

  As a matter of fact, it had docked last night, and had sailed on the outgoing tide; nobody knew where, and the harbourmaster’s office was disinclined to answer such queries. Clare cared little, because Sigmund, with his usual genius for such things, struck up a conversation with a hevvymancer who had helped unload the Srkány’s cargo, among which were several crates bound for an estate near Upper Hardres. Heavy crates the hevvymancers cursed, for they behaved oddly under the lifting and settling charms.

  Clare would hazard a guess that this was the very estate Masters had perfected the core at, never mind that it was a Crown property. Sig paid for the dour-faced hevvy’s next pint of ale and they plunged back into the crowd, Clare nervous without good reason. Or, perhaps, the reason had not presented itself yet, struggling to rise from an observation he had not given proper weight to.

  When he finally located the source of the unease, it was marked enough to force him to lay hold of Sig’s arm and pull the Bavarian into a close, conveniently dark, reeking alley. “Look there,” he muttered, and Sigmund knew better than to protest. “And there. What do you see?”

  Valentinelli swore, melding with the dimness behind them. Clare was perhaps just the tiniest bit gratified that he had seen them before the Neapolitan.

  Across the street, a heavyset man with tremendous sweeping whiskers stepped sideways, as if he did not quite have his land legs yet. His coat was of a cloth not often seen on Britannia’s Isle, and his bearing was unmistakably military. He had, so far, wandered once up and down in front of the nameless inn already doing a brisk business in gin and merriment, and he turned to make another pass.

  Once Clare’s attention had snagged on him, other bits of wrongness blared like trumpets. “The man in grey, across the street. See how he holds his pipe? No Englishman does so. And his boots – Hessians, and shone to a fare-thee-well. Now, look there, chap. Another one, with Hessians and his coat. You’ll notice it’s turned inside out. There, the two men in the tavern door – the same boots, the same coats. They have sought to disguise themselves, one with a kerchief and another with those dreadful breeches. Look at their whiskers. Not the fashion this side of the Channel, dear Sig. What does that tell you?”

  The Bavarian spread his hands, waiting for Clare to answer his own rhetorical question.

  “Prussians, Sig. Mercenaries, I’d lay ten pound on it. Look at the way those two hold their hands – they are accustomed to rifles. That one is a captain – he subtly presents his chest, so none below him in rank will miss the badge he has been forced to lay aside. And see, that one there? He is watching the street.”

  “This is Dover,” Sigmund said heavily. “Different men from different countries come here, ja?”

  “Indisputably.” Clare frowned. “But there are two in the door, another there standing watch, and the captain is patrolling. Looking for stragglers, perhaps? Or making certain nobody remarks that the inn there, and probably all the rooms inside it, is full to the brim with Prussian mercenaries. That is why Prussian capacitors, and that is what else was on the ship. I expected as much.”

  Valentinelli swore again. “We leave now. Now.”

  “Quite.” Clare jammed his hat more firmly on his head. “We must find horses. I doubt the train runs to Upper Hardres before noon.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Duel and Discipline

  The Major Circle about her glowed, quicksilver charter charms inside its double circuit spitting and hissing as Llewellyn threw a Word at her. She batted it aside, her throat swelling with chant, and another hole tore itself in the parlour wall, narrowly missing one of Llewellyn’s Shields as the man leapt for Mikal. Who turned, with sweet economy of motion, and drove a knife into his opponent’s throat with a sound like an axe buried in seasoned wood.

  Her fellow Prime was off balance; she had always been much better at splitting her focus. He was contaminated water, seeping at the borders of her will; she countered with clean lake and ocean, and a Word shaped itself under her chant, blooming hurtful bright as fire burst through the ocean’s surface and scorched him. Llewellyn took a half-step back within his own Circle, his pale eyes narrowing, and his answering Word robbed the fire of breath, crushing blackness descending on Emma and squeezing.

  She had expected that, though – it was one of his favourite tricks. A non-physical shift sideways, her hand flung out, and the curse jetted free of the gauntlets, the charter symbol sleek and deadly as it pierced veils of ætheric protections. Llewellyn almost did not hop aside in time, and his left arm whipped back, blood exploding from his shoulder. He ignored the injury, flicking his right hand forward, force expended recklessly to crack her own protections. Which shimmered, shuddered … and held, just barely.

  Thick crimson, almost black in the uncertain light, flowed down Llewellyn’s arm. His frock coat was going to be absolutely ruined. A sudden burst of amusement threatened to dislodge Emma’s grip, but she recognised the attack and let it slide away, her chant taking on the sonorous ripple of a hymn. Llewellyn’s face twisted, and she was certain her own countenance was not smooth either.

  It is a very good thing I am not a lady. She pressed the attack, her will bearing down, the chant rising in volume as his faltered. The blood painting his sleeve dripped, but too slowly – globules hung in the air below his contorted hand, spinning gently in mid-air. The fine hairs all over Emma’s body rose.

  Llewellyn’s spine twisted. The blood slowed further, and she scented the beginning of a Major Work, hovering on the edge of probability and possibility, its structure a glory of tangled crystal lattices calcifying with pure white-hot iron.

  He’s using blood to fuel it; be careful, Emma!

  If she had not once been so close to Llewellyn, she would not have seen the weakness, carefully protected by a nest of thorn-burning spikes.

  Do not hesitate, he had told her, over and over again, his hand on her hip, warm and safe in the nest of whatever bed they were sharing at the moment. Hesitation in a duel is loss.

  She struck for the raw spike-choked gap, ætheric force turned to a shining-sharp blade that bent, a jolt pouring up her arms as her own Work mutated, responding to the shape of his. This was the critical juncture – if she misjudged, the force of her defence would be spent and his attack would strike her head-on.

  But she had not misjudged.

  Llewellyn’s body crumpled, flung back like a rag doll as his own Work detonated beneath him. Broken charter symbols spun, spitting sparks in every shade, and the entire house shuddered on its foundations. The limp form of the other Prime crashed into the fireplace, a jolt of blue flame searing Emma’s sensitised eyes, and two of his Shields dropped mid-motion as he shunted the backlash aside, sacrificing them.

  That’s not a good si—

  Mikal screamed, inarticulate rage a bright copper note against the sudden throat-cut quiet. He launched himself at her, both knives out, and Emma’s instinctive twitch to protect herself was unnecessary.

  For Mikal was not striking at her. Instead, he had read the threat from Llewellyn far more accurately than she had, and reacted more quickly to boot. Frozen, her unneeded defence sparking as the stone at her throat warmed fractionally, Emma could only watch as Mikal flung himself past her –

  – and straight into a scythe-storm of sorcery, as Llewellyn’s black-shrouded form birthed itself from the ruin of the fireplace. Ætheric blades blossomed in a hurtful black rosette, and blood exploded for the second time as her Shield fell.

  “Hold his head up.” Emma’s hands were slick with hot blood. “There. And there.” Sorcerous force bled from her fingertips. Her earrings shivered, the charge contained in their long swinging beads delicately spinning down her neck, twining across her collarbones, and draining down her arms as she closed the rip in Mikal’s belly.

  Mikal’s e
yelids fluttered. Eli held his shoulders, pale cheeks spattered with blood and other fluids. Emma’s concentration did not allow wavering. She smoothed the violated flesh, charter symbols flushing red as they sank into torn meat, the language of Mending forced to obey her foreign lips shaping its syllables. She was not of the White, whose branches of Discipline encouraged healing. She was not even of the Grey, the seekers of Balance. No, Emma’s Discipline was deeply of the Black; the primal forces too great to be concerned with small things like ripped-wide skin and muscle.

  At this instant, she did not care in the slightest. Mending would serve her, she had decided, and there was no room for disobedience. Flesh melded together, the spark of life within it responding with far more strength than she thought possible, and Mikal’s eyes opened fully, yellow irises glowing with unholy fire. He cried out, a long, shapeless sound full of thunder, and she sat back on her heels. Plaster and brick dust coated her face – Llewellyn had blasted straight through walls in his hurry to flee her.

  And well he should, she thought, grimly. But first things first. She looked up, met Eli’s gaze. The younger Shield was wide-eyed and very pale. Childish of him, but she did not have the heart to take him to task. “He shall mend,” she said, heavily. “Listen to me very carefully, Shield.”

  “I hear,” Eli answered automatically. He was well trained, she decided, but not particularly imaginative. Mikal’s eyes had closed again, and he slumped, bloody but whole, in his brother Shield’s arms. Grayson’s body was twisted wrack, the sopha it had been flung over smashed to flinders. She could not remember when during the duel that had happened.

  It did not matter. Mikal was alive, and that had to be enough. Her damnable duty lay heavy on her shoulders.

  “Take him to St Jemes Palace. Tell whoever is on guard duty that the Raven has sent you. You will be ushered into a certain personage’s presence. Tell that personage that Lord Sellwyth is alive and treacherous. Say, Dinas Emrys. Furthermore, tell this personage everything you have witnessed so far, word for word, and Mikal shall add his own observations. Afterwards you are to stay with that personage, and guard that personage with your very life. Are my instructions clear, Shield?”

  “Very.” Eli swallowed hard. His clothes were in a sad, sorry state – all three of them were coated with ground-fine plaster, their faces garishly chalked with the stuff. “Prima, where—”

  He sought to question her? “Cease your noise. I shall be pursuing Lord Sellwyth.” She paused; decided he did, after all, require more explanation. He had only just arrived in the game. “Eli, I am about to open the gates of my Discipline. Keep Mikal here until he has Mended sufficiently to travel to St Jemes.” Another pause, this one longer, while she touched the quiescent Shield’s cheek. Her fingers left a bloody smear on the fine powdery grit. “I … do not wish him to see this. Nor you,” she added, belatedly, and stopped herself from continuing. If he does not reach St Jemes whole, if you somehow damage him on the way, I shall hunt you down. And what I do to Llewellyn shall seem a mercy compared to your own suffering.

  But that was not quite proper. She took her hand away and rose, shedding dust and dirt with the crackle of a cleansing charm.

  The trail of destruction punched through walls, the entire house vibrating with the after-effects of a duel. Patches of plaster had turned to glass or smooth iron, chalky and inky feathers flew, irrationality transmuting the prosaic materials of the everyday into something else. Moisture dripped from the ceilings, droplets sliding upwards from the floor in some patches. The force of gravity itself was disturbed, and it would take time for the irrationality to bleed itself away through other sorceries worked in the vicinity.

  She stepped through the outer wall, shaking her head slightly as the edges torn in the brick facing shivered. They had transmuted to a long red silken fringe, fluttering even in the still, fog-bound air, touching her cheeks and the backs of her hands with sinister, slippery little kisses.

  Llewellyn and his remaining Shields had made for the stables. As Chancellor, Grayson had the right to have his carriage drawn by two gryphons on State occasions, as long as he defrayed the cost of their keep.

  And of course, with his Shields, Lord Sellwyth could commandeer said beasts to effect his escape.

  I must have frightened him very badly.

  They had paused long enough to let the gryphons at the clockhorses. Shreds of horseflesh spattered the wrecked interior of the stable; the hot reek of offal and copper blood filled her nose. Shards of bone littered the floor. Grayson had possessed quite a collection, but every single clockhorse was a mess of bone, metal, and rent meat.

  It does not matter, Emma. It is time.

  She stood, her fists caught in her tattered skirts. The vision of Mikal’s broken body rose before her; she banished it with an effort that caused sweat to spring free. The plaster dust turned to a slick coating, and she fought to contain the force rising in her.

  When she had again mastered herself, she gazed about the stable as if seeing it for the first time.

  Death is here.

  Very well, then. She was of the Endor, and it was high time she reminded Llewellyn Gwynnfud of the fact. Incidentally, if he reached his destination and engaged on what she suspected his next step was, her Queen would be in danger.

  Emma Bannon, Sorceress Prime, did not like that idea at all. She inhaled smoothly, disregarding everything about her, turning inward to the locked and barred door of her deepest self.

  And her Discipline … unfolded.

  There was the lesser sorcery, charter and charm of force stored and renewed every Tideturn. Then there was Discipline, the unleashing of power that did not follow the sorcerer’s bidding. It simply was, working through the gateway suddenly opened for it until the strength of the conduit failed. When the gateway closed, the world was changed.

  This, then, the danger of sorcery – a losing of oneself.

  A fierce hurtful flower blooming in her, its barbs tipped with rotting dust and earth in her mouth. Leprous spots crawled over her skin, the taste of bones and bitter ash. “Aula naath gig,” she cried, a Language older even than Mending’s mellifluousness, and the chant took shape, tearing itself free of moorings inside her. Sorcery rose, pure and unconstrained.

  The bones and meat and metal bedecking the stable’s interior … twitched.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Quarry and Quarry

  It was a good thing Miss Bannon had left them a well-filled purse. The price of rented clockhorses to Upper Hardres was ridiculous. Ludovico pointed this out and drove a much harder bargain than Clare thought strictly wise, seeming to enjoy the haggling far more than was prudent. The Neapolitan was called a filthy gipsy, and took pleasure in feeding this impression by ill-timed spitting and insults. Sigmund was, of course, no help – the Bavarian could be cheated from pillar to post, and nearly was before the assassin intervened so auspiciously. It took a great deal of patience Clare was not overly supplied with in order to conclude the bargain in a reasonably diplomatic fashion.

  Nevertheless, they were saddled by the time dawn broke over Dover’s cliffs, and a half-hour later had quit the town’s clutching limits.

  The ride was a green and grey blur, Clare’s attention turned mostly inward, equations filling his mental cauldron near to bursting. The pattern trembled just out of reach. He did not know Throckmorton’s work, and there were other influences besides – he had read Roderick Smythe’s monograph on logic patterns, but the crop of equations bore as much resemblance to Smythe’s examples as a single fingernail gear did to Brocarde’s Infinitude Audoricon.

  The clutching fog tried to follow them, but five miles out of Dover they burst into watery grey sunlight. The waking world was hushed, even the birds forgetting to greet the sunrise.

  Their view was for the most part trammelled by high green hedges on either side, and Valentinelli slumped in his saddle as if he wished he were elsewhere. Sigmund clutched at the reins and looked miserable. Clare would have qu
ite enjoyed himself, if not for the incessant mental work. He was no closer to finding a pattern to the equations when they breasted a rise and looked down on the dual villages of Hardres, Upper and Lower. The estate was on the far side of the Lower town, a haze of coal and other smoke riding under the billows of grey cloud, weather sweeping in visible from a long distance away.

  Despite his slouching, Valentinelli was a good horseman, and his bay clockhorse picked up the pace as much as was safe. Hoofbeats pounded steady time, jog-trotting, sometimes reaching a bone-rattling canter when the Neapolitan judged it appropriate. Time pressed down on Clare, ticking – there was only a limited amount of it before they reached the estate, and once there time would weigh on them even more heavily.

  They passed a weather-beaten sign, proclaiming Hardres Quarry Ltd 3mi, proudly pointing down an overgrown track that had nevertheless seen hard recent use, if the state of the broken and battered herbiage on its floor was any indication. Clare noted this, and his uneasiness mounted. The Sun refused to show His face, and the air was heavy with the fresh greensap scent of rain.

  “Mentale.” The Neapolitan glanced over his shoulder. “What we likely to find here?”

  It was somewhat of a relief to turn his attention from the equations. The array of mental blackboards had changed into a forest of hideously twisted chalk scribbles. “More mecha, certainly,” he answered, his faculties directed sluggishly at the new question. “Possibly a mentath to deal with the arranging of the fresh capacitors. What troubles me is that almost certainly we will find a few men in the trade of violence. We are not so very far from Londinium, and if Prussians have arrived in Dover, they have arrived elsewhere as well. Brighton and Hardwitch, of course.” The planning involved is tremendous. But they would not need many – just enough to hold the Palace and Whitehall, as well as the Armory at the foot of the Tower. Much will depend on exactly how they plan to incapacitate Britannia or Her vessel.