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 – ragpickers, 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.
Everything was cheap here. Including human life.
Already the sky was hazed – not nearly enough; the light speared through her skull. This would be so much easier after dusk.
It would be easier for Gippius too. So Emma blinked furiously, did not lift her handkerchief to her nose, and kept the subtle threads of glamour blending together. Some few of the slightly sorcerous on the street glanced at her once or twice, but she was Prime and they were merely sparks. They would not see what she truly was unless she willed it.
A venous network of alleys had grown around Thrawl, slumping tenements festooned with sagging laundry hung on lines despite the coal dust, refuse packed into corners. Children screamed and ran about, playing some game that made sense only to them, the slurring drawl of the Eastron End already evident in their joyous accents. Malnourished but agile, they were more problematic than the adults – sometimes a child’s gaze would pierce a glamour where even an Adept’s could not.
She found the rat’s nest of alleyways she was looking for, and plunged into welcome gloom. Some doors hung ajar, shadows flitting through them; a colourless vapour of gin and hopelessness rose. A baby cried, wheedling and insistent, somewhere in the depths of a building. A man crouched on a low step in front of a battered, dispirited wooden door. Muffled cries were heard from inside, and the man’s eyes followed Emma’s shadow as he peeled his nails with a short, wicked knife, taking care to palm the filthy clippings up to his mouth as an insurance against charming.
At the far end of the alley the abortionist’s door, studded with iron nails, grimaced. Emma braced herself and strode for it, her boots slipping a little against the crust coating the alley floor. No wonder Gippius had sunk into this quarter of the city – few constables would brave this hole.
Few sorcerers would, even.
Invisible strings quivered under the surface of the visible. The cameo warmed at her throat, and the ætheric protections in Gippius’s walls resonated slightly.
That is not a good sign. The door had no knob; she simply focused – and stepped through, a shivering curtain of glamour sparking and fizzing as her will shunted the river of charm and charter aside.
Gippius was quick and deadly, but he was not native. In his country, she would be the sorcerous stranger, and the resultant struggle might have had a different outcome. As it was, she flung out a hand, the Cossack who did a Shield’s duty for Konstantin stumbled back into a mound of clothing waiting for the ragpickers, and Emma’s other gloved hand made a curious tracing motion as she spoke a minor Word. Witchlight flared, and Konstantin Gippius stumbled back, clutching at his throat. A single line of chant, low and vicious, poured from Emma’s mouth, a fierce hurtful thrill of sorcery spilling through her, and the Cossack shrieked as ætheric bonds snapped into place over him.
The chant faded into the humming of live sorcery. Emma climbed to her feet, brushing off her dress. The Cossack’s shriek was cut short on a gurgle; she grimaced and made certain her bonnet was straight. The huge glass jars filling every shelf chattered and clattered together, the abominations inside twitching as dark, pudgy Gippius thrashed on the trash-strewn floor. He was turning a most amazing shade of purple.
“Behave yourself,” she said sternly, and flicked her fingers, releasing the silencing.
Gippius’s throat swelled with sound. Sorcery flashed towards her; she batted the venomous yellow darting coils aside and tightened her gloved fist, humming a low sustained note. The silencing clamped down again, the cameo a spot of scorch against her chest. “I said behave yourself, Gippius! Or I shall choke you to death and go a-traipsing through your house for what I wish.”
Spluttering, the Russian thrashed. His boots drummed the floor. When she judged she had perhaps expressed her seriousness in terms he could comprehend, she fractionally loosened her hold once again.
The abominations in the jars moved too, slopping their baths of amber solution against dusty glass. Tiny piping cries echoed, their large heads and tiny malformed bodies twitching. Metal clinked – some of them had been Altered. Gippius’s science was inefficient, and disgusting as well.
It is a very good thing I have a strong stomach. Emma eyed Gippius as he lay quiescent, glaring balefully. Greasy black hair hung in strings, sawdust from his rolling about griming the curls. A crimson spark lit in the backs of his pupils, but quickly dimmed and was extinguished as his face grew more and more plummy.
She eased the constriction, in increments. It took a good long while for his tortured gasps to even out, and the Cossack moaned to one side. Emma spent the time eyeing the jar-living abominations, examining the filthy curtain drawn to mark the entrance to Gippius’s surgery, the low sullen light of malformed witchballs sparking orange as they bobbed in cheap lantern-cages. The stove in the corner glowed sullenly as well, and the large pot bubbling atop it reeked of cabbage.
When she judged it saf
e enough, and further judged she had Konstantin’s entire attention, she drew the protection disc and its broken ribbon from her skirt pocket.
“Now,” she said quietly, for it did not do to shout if there was no need, “I am about to question you, Konstantin Serafimovitch. If you do not have proper answers – or if I even suspect any impropriety such as dishonesty in your answers – first I will kill your Cossack. If you continue to be remiss, I shall shatter all your jars. If you are still remiss, I shall be forced to make things very unpleasant for your corpus.” She paused, let him absorb this. “And I do not have to cease when you expire, either.”
Now he was moaning as well. The counterpoint of male agony was almost musical.
She began working her gloves off, finger by finger, though her flesh crawled at the thought of touching anything in this hole with bare flesh. “Now. Let us start with this protection charm.”
Chapter Ten
Tea and Data
Newspaper clippings scattered over the table, turned this way and that as he tested connections between them. Two volumes of the Encylopaedie stood open as well, a further three stacked on the chair, and he paced between the fireplace and the window. More papers, covered with his cramped handwriting, fluttered as he passed the table. The desk was snowed under with a drift of notes and more volumes.
Occasionally he stopped, running his hands through thinning hair. His pipe had long since gone out.
“The connections,” he muttered, several times. “I must have more data!”
He had endured the visit from Mr Finch, interrupting his research with idiocy about linens and a valet, and further endured the measuring-charms and queries of the footman chosen to do valet duty. His freshly laundered linens, sent by an obliging Grayson, had been delivered and stowed away. Then, thankfully, they had left him in peace – what peace there was, for he was beginning to be sorely pressed.
The door resounded under a series of knocks, and when it opened, the Shield took in the explosion of paper and Clare’s pacing. “Tea,” he said, the single word as colourless as it was possible for a syllable to be. His mouth turned down at the corners, and he was actually grey under his copper hue. “In the conservatory.”
“That’s not where she takes her tea!” Clare cried, turning in a jerky half-circle. “I know that much! I am engaged on deducing much more. But there’s one piece, one critical piece – or maybe more than one. I cannot tell. I must have more data!”
Mikal’s features betrayed no surprise. Just that grey, set monotone. “My Prima takes her tea in her study, but you are a guest, and the conservatory is made avail—”
Clare halted, staring at him. “My God, man, you look dreadful.”
The Shield’s head dipped, a fractional nod. “Thank you. Tea, mentath. Come along.”
“Why do you—” Clare stopped short. His head cocked, the chain of deduction enfolding. “Surely you are not so worried for Miss Bannon’s safety that you—”
“Tea,” Mikal repeated, and retreated into the hall, pulling the door to but not latching it. Which effectively halted the conversation, though only until Clare could exit his suite.
Unfortunately the Shield had taken that into account, and was at the other end of the hall before Clare could gather himself. He led Clare through the house, always just at the end of a hall or at the bottom of stairs, and did not slacken the pace until Clare stepped into the largish conservatory’s pearly glow. A thin dusting of rain streaked the glass walls, rippling panes held in filigreed wrought-iron, charter symbols falling through the metal like golden oil. The day had turned grey-haze, but the collection of potted plants and small, ruthlessly pruned larger bushes – orange, lemon, lime, false lime, rosemary, bay laurel, and the like – still drank in the light greedily. The north end was given to straggling, rank, baneful plants – rue, pennyroyal, nightshade, wolfsbane, nettle, hadthorn, and more. East and west held common herbs – feverfew, a few mint species, chamomile, costmary and other culinary and common-charm plants. The south end was given to exotics – a tomato plant, green unripe fruit hanging on charter-charm-reinforced green stems, orchids Clare could not name, a small planter of fiery scarlet tulips, a dwarf rose whose petals were a velvety purple very close to black. Each was covered by a crystalline dome of sorcery, ringing with thin, gentle sounds when the atmosphere inside stirred the leaves – a quite pleasant sound, like faraway bells.
To properly examine every plant would take perhaps an hour and a half. Here was another unexpected richness. It was not the sort of room Clare would expect to find Miss Bannon in, and his estimation of her character went through a sharp change as a result. Which led him down several interesting and troubling roads all at once.
The furniture was white-painted wicker, the chairs cushioned with rich blue velvet. A snow-white cloth trimmed in scallops of blue lace covered the tabletop, the service was burnished to within an inch of its silvery life, and a full tea was arranged on three tiers, the shimmer of a keeping charm visible over it. The air was alive with sorcery.
Mikal prowled near the northern end of the sunroom, pacing, his boots soundless on the mellow-glowing, satiny wooden floor. The light picked out red highlights in his dark hair, stroked the nap of his velvet coat, and made his colour even more sickly.
The housekeeper, her black crêpe rustling, hovered over the table bobbing a tiny curtsey. Her cap was placed so precisely he half expected it to bow as well. Her round face lit with genuine pleasure, and not a single lock of dark hair was out of place. Her indenture collar glowed. “Bonjour, Monsieur Clare! Tea is generally mine, madame prefers it so. Shall I pour for you?”
He could very well pour for himself. But here was another opportunity for deduction and questioning. “I would be delighted, Madame Noyon. Please, join me. It seems Mr Mikal doesn’t care for tea.”
“He never does. Madame would make him sit, but he is not likely to now.” Her plump nervous hands moved, and Clare laid a private bet with himself about which chair she would prefer him in.
“How often does Miss Bannon leave him behind to fret, then?”
That earned him a solemn French glance. Her collar flashed, and her daggered jet earrings swung. “Monsieur.” Sudden, icy politeness. She indicated the chair he had chosen, and at least his instincts were not off.
“Very well. I am only concerned for Miss Bannon’s safety, Madame Noyon.”
“Well.” Slightly mollified, she began the ritual of tea with an ease that spoke of long practice. She made an abortive movement for the milk, and he deduced Miss Bannon habitually took some, and was often otherwise occupied while Madame Noyon poured. Some of the savouries appeared to be favoured by his absent hostess, too. “You have no need to fear, monsieur. Our madame is the finest sorcerer in Londinium. When she says a thing is to be done, pouf! It is done.”
Touching faith. He added a few more links to the chain of deduction. “She rescued you, did she not?”
“Ma foi, she rescued us all! Lemon?”
“No, thank you. Rescued you all?”
“Finch, he was thief. Catherine, she was Without Reference, as you Anglais say. Wilbur in the stables, he was—”
Mikal was suddenly across the table, yellow eyes glowing. “Enough. The domestics are no interest of yours, mentath.”
Madame Noyon gasped, her hand to her mouth. The tea service rattled slightly, the table underneath it responding to a feral current.
“You could sit and have tea,” Clare returned, mildly enough. “The more I know, Mr Mikal, the more help I am to your mistress. A mentath is useless without data.”
“You are worse than useless anyway.” The Shield’s graven face had lost even more colour. “If she is harmed while I am forced to sit—”
“Monseiur le bouclie.” Madame Noyon tapped the teapot with the lemon knife. “You are in very bad manners. Monsieur Clare is our guest, and madame left instructions. You sit, or pace, but do not loaf about table like vulture!”
Clare watched as the Shield
’s face congested, suffusing with a ghastly flush before the man turned on his booted heel and glided away towards the north end. The rain intensified, spattering glass and iron, the charter symbols sending up small wisps of fog as cold water touched them.
Madame Noyon swallowed, audibly. Her fingers trembled slightly before she firmed her mouth and put on a bright expression. “Madame returns soon, monsieur. Eat, eat. You are thin like Mr Finch, you must eat.”
Clare certainly intended to. His landlady’s teas were nowhere near as grand, and only a fool would let his digestion be troubled.
Yet he pushed his chair back and rose. He approached the north end of the conservatory, his hands clasped behind his back and the slap of rain intensifying again. Rivulets slid their cold fingers over the glass.
“Mr Mikal.” He hoped his tone was not overly familiar – or overly distant. Dealing with this messiness was so difficult. “I beg your pardon, sir. I do not intend to be a burden, and my intent in questioning about Miss Bannon is purely so I may assist her in whatever way necessary, to the best of my ability. I may be useless, and own no sorcery, but I am striving to become less useless, and I very much crave your assistance in that endeavour.”
Mikal had come to a stop, his head down, staring at a thorn-spiked, venomous-looking plant in a low earthenware pot. His shoulders hunched, as if expecting a blow, but straightened just as swiftly.
Clare retreated to the tea table. But halfway through his second scone, Mikal dropped into the chair across from him. Madame Noyon’s eyebrows nested in her hairline, but she poured for him too. The Shield’s face did not ease and his colour did not return. He was still grey as the rain.
But he drank his tea, staring up over Clare’s head at an infinitely receding point, and Clare was hard pressed not to feel …
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