The Iron Wyrm Affair: Bannon and Clare: Book 1

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Miss Bannon nodded, once. She did not sway, her back iron-rigid, but something was wrong. She held herself oddly, and her gaze was terrifyingly blank. Clare groped to think of just what was amiss.

  The sorceress looked … as if she had forgotten her very self.

  “Who dies next?” she murmered, very clearly, the words dropping into a sudden rustling silence as gryphons drifted down to land, their claws digging into stone and fallen timber, making slight scratching noises against steel. “Who?”

  The first Prussian screamed.

  After that, the gryphons feasted. But Clare gratefully closed his eyes, finally able to cease deducing. The inside of his skull felt scraped clean and queerly open. For once, he did not want to see.

  The sounds were bad enough.

  Chapter Forty

  The Need Was Dire

  Britannia’s vessel halted a fair distance away. “Emma?” Abruptly, Victrix sounded very young. Perhaps it was all the dust in the air. Or perhaps it was the ringing in Emma’s ears.

  She suspected she would pay for this episode very soon, and in bloody coin.

  The gryphons pressed forward. They had made short work of the brown-coated mercenaries, and in the courtyard was a vast wreck of metal and glass she had only indirectly glimpsed as she struggled to keep the brain-stabbed gryphon in the air. It seemed Clare and company had endured their own travails.

  “Your Majesty.” She swayed, and suddenly Mikal was at her side. His fingers closed around her arm, and she leaned into that support, too exhausted to be grateful. She felt nothing but a vast drowning weariness. “I murdered one of your steeds, Britannia. You may punish me as you see fit. However, before you do, I beg leave to report that the Earl of Sellwyth is dead and Vortigern still sleeps. Your steeds had most of the stopping of Lord Sellwyth. I did not serve them well.”

  The body of the black gryphon – the knife, driven with exactitude into the tiny space between the back of the skull and the top vertebrae – bubbled as it rotted swiftly, the stresses endured by its physical fabric as she forced it to fly for Londinium with its fellows in hot pursuit unravelling it.

  The gryphons would not be able to eat their brother, and that was the worst that could befall one of their number.

  They would not forgive her for this.

  “Lord Sellwyth.” The Queen’s face was bruised, but granite-hard. Britannia settled fully into Her vessel and regarded Emma with bright eyes, glowing dust over a river of ancient power. “He sought to awaken Vortigern.”

  I am not certain he was the only one who sought to do so. I do know he almost succeeded. “I caught him at Dinas Emrys. Which is, I believe, part of his family’s ancestral holdings.” She fought to stay conscious, heard the queer flatness of her tone. Eli appeared on her other side, looking sadly the worse for wear. “I beg your pardon for the method of my return, but the need was dire.”

  Where is Clare? She glanced at Mikal, who stared at Britannia, a muscle flicking in his jaw. I do not like that I cannot see him. And Ludovico, where is he? The knife in her right hand dangled; she could not make her fingers unlock from the hilt.

  A Word to steal the gryphon’s breath, another Word to snap iron bands about its wings, and she had driven the knife into its brain and uttered the third Word, the most terrible and scorching one of all, expending so much of her stored sorcerous force she almost lost consciousness, holding grimly on to one single thought. Londinium. Find the Queen.

  And the dead body had obeyed the Endor in her. It had flown.

  “So it was. We shall inform you of any punishment later.” The Queen nodded, slowly. “We do not think it will be too severe.”

  “Blasphemy!” one of the gryphons howled. They rustled, pressing close, and Mikal tensed next to Emma. She leaned into him even further, for her legs were failing her and even the dim, dust-choked light in the Hall was too scorch-bright for her sensitised eyes. “She robbed the dead!”

  I did so much more than that. The beasts will not forgive this, and their memory is long. “Mikal.” Her heart stuttered, her body finally rebelling against the demands she had placed upon it. “Mikal.”

  He bent his head slightly, his eyes never leaving the Queen. “Emma.”

  He would kill Britannia Herself, did he judge Her a threat to me. The realisation, quiet but thunderous, loosed the last shackle of her will.

  “I have been cruel to you.” The whisper was so faint, she doubted he heard her. “I should not have … Forgive me.”

  “There is no—” he began, but darkness swallowed Emma whole.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Amenable to Control

  “And this is the killer of that gigantic thing.” Victrix inclined her head. “We are grateful, Mr Valentinelli. You performed a great service to Britannia.”

  The Neapolitan swept a painful, creaky bow. Both his eyes were swollen nearly shut, half his hair singed off, and his face was such a mass of cuts and welts it was difficult to see the pox scars. His clothes were in ribbons, and one of his boots was nothing more than a band of leather about his ankle and calf, the rest of it cut away and the stocking underneath filthy and draggled. “It is nothing, maestra. Valentinelli is at your service.”

  Clare’s neck ached. The tension would not leave him. “Cecil Throckmorton. He was mad, Your Majesty, but he was also used.”

  “Used by whom?” The Queen half turned, pacing away, and Clare forced his legs to work. He and Sigmund held each other like a pair of drunks.

  The smaller gryphons took wing, their shadows pouring over the glass- and rubble-strewn floor. The sound was immense, a vault filled with brushing feathers. The dust was settling.

  Clare suppressed a sigh. But this was important; he must make the Queen understand. “There were three parts to this conspiracy. Miss Bannon dealt with those who wished Britannia and the Isle erased from existence; she judged that the larger threat. One part of the conspiracy simply wished Britannia inconvenienced, however they could effect that – I would look to the Prussian ambassador, who will no doubt deny everything, since they were mercenaries and, by very dint of that, expendable. The third part of the conspiracy troubles me most, Your Majesty. It wished you, personally, Britannia’s current vessel, under control.”

  “Control.” Victrix paused for a moment. Her shoulders came up, and she stalked for the high-backed Throne, the Stone of Scorn underneath its front northern leg shimmering soft silver as she approached. The Throne itself, undamaged, gleamed with precious stones.

  It looked, Clare decided, dashed uncomfortable. But Victrix climbed the seven steps, turned sharply so her dust-laden skirts swirled, and sat. Sigmund might have gone up the steps as well, but Clare dug his heels in, and was strong enough to make him stop.

  Victrix propped one elbow on the Throne’s northern arm, rested her chin upon her hand. The Guards searching through the rubble for wounded compatriots were hushed, muttering among themselves. Men moaned in pain or shock. The Queen closed her eyes, and Clare could have sworn he felt the entire Isle shiver once as Britannia, enthroned, turned Her attention inward.

  “And do you think,” the Queen finally said, “that Britannia is amenable to control?”

  “Not Britannia,” he corrected, a trifle pedantic. “Victrix, Your Majesty. Wounded, frightened, faced with three conspiracies working in tandem? Your Majesty might well rely on … improper advice.” Then he shut his mouth, almost … yes, almost afraid he had said too much.

  “Well said, sir.” Britannia sighed, Her chin sinking on to Her hand as if it weighed far more than it should. “Yet, as long as We possess subjects of such courage and loyalty as yourself, We shall not worry overmuch.”

  “Miss Bannon deserves the credit, Your Majesty.” He sounded stiff even to himself, but it was merely the agony of exhaustion weighing him down. Staying upright and speaking consumed a great deal of his attention.

  A ghost of amusement passed over Britannia’s closed, somnolent face. “No doubt she would lay it at your door
.”

  “She is too kind.”

  “Not at all, mentath. We think it best you leave now. Our Consort approaches, and We wish a private word with him.”

  Clare thought of protesting. Valentinelli gripped his free arm, though, and it occurred to him that discretion was perhaps wiser than anything he might say, however well founded the chain of logic that led to his suspicions. “Yes, mum. I mean, Your Majesty. By your leave.” Oh, what is the proper etiquette for taking leave of one’s sovereign in these circumstances?

  “Mentath. Mr Clare.” Britannia’s eyes half opened, and the aged face rising underneath Victrix’s young countenance sent a most illogical shiver down Clare’s spine. Her eyes were indigo from lid to lid, small sparks like stars floating over depths he found he did not wish to examine too closely. What would it be like to clasp such a being in one’s arms?

  No, he did not envy the Consort. Not at all. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  “Make certain Miss Bannon may find you and your companions. We shall wish to reward you, when We have sorted this unpleasantness through.” Her eyelids fell again, and Clare heard the drumming of approaching feet, shouts, and crunching of glass.

  What did one say in this exotic situation? “Yes. Er, thank you, Your Majesty.”

  Sig tugged him in one direction, Valentinelli in another. They finally decided on a course, Clare’s head hanging so low he did not see anything but his own filthy boots dragged over rubble and dust. When he passed into a soup of half-consciousness, it was welcome, his overstrained faculties deciding they required a retreat from recent events. He heartily agreed.

  The last thing he heard was Sig’s muttering, and Valentinelli’s non-committal grunts in reply.

  “Just one,” the Bavarian kept repeating. “You hear me, Italiensch? One mecha. We drag it to workshop. I feed you wurst. You help me.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  A Most Logical Sorceress

  Emma slept for two and a half days, not even waking when Tideturn flushed her with sorcerous force. She finally surfaced to greet a fine clear Thursday dawn, spring sunlight piercing the haze of Londinium and the reek of the city cheerfully pungent, stray breaths of it creeping even into her dressing room.

  The servants were slightly nervous, unused to seeing her in such a terrible state. Battered and tattered, of course, but even her corset stays had been broken, and she winced at the thought of the flesh she had shown. A hot bath, Isobel and Catherine’s attentions, and a good dose of Severine’s fussing brought her to feeling almost human again. Chocolat and croissants did not satisfy; her mirror informed her she was unbecomingly gaunt, even if the bruises had largely faded. She rang for Mr Finch as soon as was decently possible, and told him to send out for the broadsheets. Which arrived, ink still venomously wet, as she descended to a hearty breakfast.

  Cook, it seemed, had missed her as well.

  The story bruited about in the press was an Alteration experiment gone terribly wrong. It satisfied most and left the rest with a clear warning not to speak of their uncertainties. Emma found herself licking her fingers free of jam and contemplating another platter of bangers when the breakfast room door flew open and Mikal appeared.

  He was just the same, from buttoned-up coat to flaming yellow eyes. Behind him, Eli ducked his dark head. They had evidently been at practice; the fume of recent exertion hung on them both. It was a relief to see Eli in proper boots; Mr Finch was a wonder.

  Her heart leapt behind its cage of ribs and stays; the weight in her skirt pocket seemed twice as heavy. She ignored both sensations, though Mikal’s gaze almost caused a guilty flush to rise up her throat.

  “Good morning, Shields,” she greeted them. “If you have not breakfasted, please do so. But I warn you, should you come between me and those bangers, I shall be quite vexed.” She touched her skirt pocket, took her hand away with an effort. “Mikal. What news?”

  “A pouch sent from the Palace, daily visits from the mentath enquiring after your health. He is due again for tea today. Valentinelli is still trailing him, despite being paid.” Mikal filled himself a plate and glanced at Eli. “Eli finds your service most exciting.”

  “Too exciting?” She tried not to appear amused, suspected she failed.

  “No, mum.” The other Shield eyed the ravaged breakfast table. It was a relief to be in the presence of those who understood a sorcerer’s hunger after such events. “Rather a change, that’s all. Proud to be here.”

  Well, that’s good. “Should you change your mind, Shield, do feel free to say so. I keep none in my service who would prefer to be elsewhere. Mikal, about Ludovico—”

  “I gave him fifty guineas, Prima. Considering that he performed extraordinarily, killed Mr Throckmorton, and brought down a rather large mecha almost by himself. Would you care to hear of it now? Clare has given me the particulars.”

  She settled herself more firmly in the chair. “Certainly. Eli, before you eat, please fetch the pouch from the Palace. No doubt it is in my library …?”

  “Of course.” He was gone in a flash, closing the door quietly.

  Mikal did not look at her. He settled in his customary seat, his plate before him just so.

  Emma waited. Silence stretched between them. The lump in her pocket was an accusing weight.

  He toyed with his fork, long, oddly delicate fingers running over its silver curves. Still did not look at her.

  You will not make this easy. “Thank you.”

  “No thanks are—”

  “Accept my thanks, Shield.”

  That brought his hot yellow gaze up to hers. “Only your thanks?”

  Unbecoming heat finally rose in her cheeks. “At the breakfast table, yes.”

  “And otherwise?”

  Otherwise? I do as I please, Shield. But let us speak of the main thing. “Sellwyth could have killed you.”

  “And he almost killed you. Do you think I do not know? It does not matter, Emma. I am your Shield. That is final, so whatever game you are pursuing, cease.”

  A faint smile touched her lips. “Did you just give me an order?”

  “If you are testing to see if I am serious, if I can be trusted—”

  I do not forget the sound Crawford made when you choked the life out of him. But you did so for me.

  Even a Shield may be, in the end, merely a man. Yet I am grateful for it. “I misjudged you once, Mikal. Never again.”

  “Are you so certain?” A spark in his gaze, one she found she rather liked.

  “Eat your breakfast.” She snapped a broadsheet open and examined it critically. “But leave those bangers alone. Else I will be vexed, Shield.”

  “God save us all from that,” he muttered. But he was smiling, she saw as she peeked over the edge of the broadsheet. A curious lightness began in the region of Emma’s chest. She disciplined it, and returned to her work.

  The solarium was drenched in golden late-afternoon light, the charter symbols wedded to the glass cooling the sun’s glare enough to be pleasant. The plants sang in their climate globes, and Emma poured the tea. The wicker tables and chairs glowed, each edge clean and bright.

  When she had handed the teacup over, she produced the parchment, rolled tightly and bound with red wax. “Your licence is reinstated. You are commissioned as one of the Queen’s Own; also, you are to be knighted. Congratulations.”

  The mentath’s long, mournful face pinkened slightly as he accepted the scroll, but he still looked grave. “There are still unanswered questions, Miss Bannon.”

  And you do not like unanswered questions. “Chief among them is the identity of Grayson’s paymaster. Though he was Chancellor of the Exchequer, and had access to a variety of funds.” Emma nodded, her curls brushing her cheeks. It was bloody luxurious to sit and have a quiet cuppa, and to wear an afternoon dress that had not been torn by some unpleasantness. “Suffice to say, there are personages we may not move directly against, no matter how high we may temporarily be in royal esteem. However, we have stung
their fingers mightily, and now I may watch them. Which will be all the more easy, given recent events.”

  “Ah yes, your creation as Countess Sellwyth. Congratulations to you.”

  Britannia has her own strange sense of justice, and She wishes Dinas Emrys watched. “That was not what I was referring to.” She indicated the tiers of dainties. And I do not want your nimble brain worrying at the question of who crafted the simulacrum in Bedlam. Even if it is a question that probably will not interest you, it is too dangerous for you to pursue. “Please. You look rather not your usual self, Mr Clare.”

  He set to with a will. Apparently his digestion was still excellent. “There is something else that troubles me. Sellwyth’s family held that place for generations. What made him think now was the proper time to unleash its, erm, occupant?”

  They offered him something his ambition could not refuse. Emma shrugged. And now I am left wondering what my ambition cannot refuse. We are alike, Llew and I, more than even he suspected. “Who can tell? He was Throckmorton’s paymaster, that much is certain; the mentath kept that secret very well. Pity Valentinelli killed him, though I understand it was necessary. Was he truly bollixing about with Alterative sorcery, I wonder?”

  Clare looked a trifle uncomfortable for a few moments. “Mad. He was utterly mad. Throckmorton, I mean. Oh. Mr Baerbarth sends his regards, by the way. He was quite put out that he could not examine one of the mecha at leisure.”

  “Perhaps something can be arranged.” The core and the large logic engine, of course, had been moved in secret. It was only a matter of time before someone else created something similar, and Emma half suspected Clare’s first project as one of the Queen’s commissioned geniuses would have something to do with preparing the Empire for such an eventuality.

  “He would be most pleased. Also, Signor Valentinelli—”