“You could have sent me a penny-post,” Emma remarked mildly enough, her hand steady as she poured a fresh cup of tea. “Or worn the Bocannon I gave you.” Her back protested – sleeping corseted and slumped in one of the most uncomfortable chairs her house possessed was not likely to give her a happy mood upon awakening. She had chosen the chair deliberately, thinking its discomforts might stave off the resultant exhaustion of a night of hunting through the glittering whirl of a ball, waiting for her quarry to slip.
There was one duke fewer in Londinium this morning, and one more traitor in the Tower to be judged and beheaded as befitted a nobleman. The evidence was damning, and Emma knew every particle of it. Should Cailesborough somehow bribe his way free…
… well, there was a reason the Queen called on one such as herself to tidy loose ends, was there not?
Tidiness was one of Emma Bannon’s specialities. It was, she often reflected, one of the few assets a childhood spent in a slum could grant one.
“I suspected you were rather busy yourself, Miss Bannon.” Archibald Clare’s lean mournful face was alarmingly pale. He accepted the cup, and there was no tremor in his capable, large-knuckled hands. “It seemed a trifle.”
Oh, yes, Dr Vance, a “trifle”. Very well. “No doubt it was.” She poured her own cup, keeping her gaze on the amber liquid. “Did you discover what the trifle was after?”
“A certain artefact of Ægyptian provenance.” Clare shifted, fretting at the rug over his bony knees. He was alarmingly gaunt.
Of course, he had not been a guest at her table as frequently as had been his wont, these last few months. She would have half suspected his friendship had cooled, had she not known of his obsession with Vance. “Hm.” She decided the noncommittal noise was not enough of an answer. “Clare, if you do not wish to tell me, that is all very well. But do not oblige me to drag the admission from you by force. Simply note it is not my affair, and we shall turn to other subjects.”
“Such is not the case at all.” He shifted again. “I thought it would bore you. Your feelings on Dr Vance are known to me.”
“My feelings, as you so delicately put it, are simply that you spend altogether too much time brooding over the man. Rather as a swain moons over his beloved.” She set her cup down, delicately speared another banger with a dainty silver fork. Fortunately, her physical reserves were a fairly simple matter to replenish, and Tideturn’s golden flood of ætheric energy had flushed her – and her jewellery – with usable sorcerous force. Any remaining exhaustion could be pushed aside, for the moment.
Clare’s silence informed her she had hit a nerve. For a mentath driven by logic, he certainly was tender-skinned sometimes. A misting of fine rain beaded the windows, the droplets murmuring in their own peculiar Language as they steamed against golden charter charms.
“This artefact would not happen to be the Eye of Bhestet, would it?” She cut with a decided motion, her spine absolutely straight. Tiny bites, as a lady should. The ghost of a wasp-waisted Magistra Prima at the Collegia walked decorously through her memory: a familiar song of black watered-silk skirts.
Prima Grinaud had been a harsh teacher, but a consistent and ruthlessly judicious one. There was much to emulate in the woman, even if her cruelty was legendary among the Collegia’s children. Primes were notoriously long-lived, but Grinaud seemed to be kept on this side of the great curtain of Being by sheer wormwood and gall.
Clare’s silence deepened. He did look rather ill, she decided, glancing in his direction just briefly enough to ascertain this. Perhaps I should not tell him. Perhaps, instead, she could enquire as to the odd substance he had been dosing himself with? It had not tasted healthful at all.
He finally spoke. “Stolen. Of course. He must have given me the slip in Thrushneedle. Bloody hell.”
“It was in the broadsheets this morning.” And yes, she definitely regretted telling him. “The Museum is most embarrassed. Speculation is rampant as to the culprit. I am… sorry, Clare. If you like—”
“He is a mentath, Miss Bannon.” Frosty, and polite, a tone he rarely used. He was pale, his eyes glittering harshly. The rug over his knees creased itself as he fidgeted precisely once. “Illogic and sorcery are not applicable tools to catch him.”
Well, you’ve been doing a fine job of it with your vaunted deductions. She occupied herself with another nibble of banger. Greasy, satisfying, hot, delicious. Just what it should be. When she was certain she had a firm hold on her temper, she spoke. “Perhaps not. More toast? Cook remembers your fondness for kippers as well.”
But Clare was staring morosely into his teacup. “So close,” he mumbled. “And… ah, yes. Definitely in Thrushneedle. He was only out of sight for a moment, damn him. Even Ludo—”
“Yes, Ludovico.” Irritation made her own manner sharper than she liked. “I told him to take great care with you, and this is what happens. You could have died, sir, and that would distress me most profoundly.”
There. It was said. The entire breakfast room rang with uncomfortable silence. She speared another tiny piece of sausage with quite unaccustomed viciousness.
“I do not mean to be the source of distress.” He still stared into his teacup as if he would find Vance’s whereabouts in its depths. “I simply—”
“The man is not a danger to the Crown.” She did her best to utter it as a simple statement of fact. “He is a thief. A passing-good one, a mentath who uses his talents for vice, but in the end, merely a thief. He is not worth such attention, Clare. Her Majesty would prefer your consideration turned elsewhere. You are, after all, one of the Queen’s Own.” She eyed the glittering ring on her second left finger, a delicate confection of marcasite and silver, ætheric force thrumming in its depths visible to Sight. “There are other matters to be attended to.”
“I should simply let him go, after he has thumbed his nose at—”
“Clare.”
“He stole from the Museum—”
“Clare.”
“Damn it, the man is a menace to—”
“Archibald.”
He subsided. Emma found her appetite gone. She set her implements down and fixed him with a glare he might have found quelling had he not still been staring into his teacup. Oh, for God’s sake.
“I would take it as a kindness,” she informed him, stiffly, “if you would convalesce here. Ludovico was sent this morning to gather such of your effects – and such things pertaining to the cases you have been neglecting while you chase your art professor – as are necessary for your comfort during such an extended stay.” She restrained herself from further lecture with a marked effort of will.
“I suppose the servants have been informed of my tender condition.” He even managed to wheeze a little.
And furthermore informed that you are not to stir one step outside this house unless it is under my care and my express orders. “You suppose correctly. You have been fretting yourself absolutely dry over this Vance character, Archibald. Pray do not force me to immure you in your room like Lady Chandevault.”
He finally looked directly at her, blinking owlishly, looking more mournful and basset-hound-like than ever. “Who? Oh, that. Miss Bannon – Emma. There is no need for concern. It was merely angina, which is common enough. I am not so young, and certain—”
Was she the only one to notice the lines at the corners of his mouth, the bleariness of his blue gaze? And the terrible fragility of him, hunched in a chair with the laprobe tucked carefully about him. Emma opened her mouth to take him to task and turn the conversation to what manner of substance he had been dosing himself with, but was interrupted by the door opening without so much as a polite knock to warn the room’s occupants.
It was Mikal, his dark hair slightly disarranged and his coat somewhat askew. He must have been at a Shield’s morning practice, for Eli was hard on his heels. “An envelope, Prima.” Mikal’s mouth was a thin line. “From the Palace.”
“Ah.” So soon? But treachery did not wait for m
annerly visiting hours, she reminded herself. “Some fresh crisis, no doubt. Archibald, finish your breakfast. It seems there are other matters for me to attend to.”
He looked strangely stricken, and sought to rise as she did. She waved him back down. “No, no. Please, do not. Concentrate on your recovery, or I shall be not only vexed but downright peeved with you. A fate worse than death, I’m sure.” Her sally only received the faintest of smiles, but she had no time to remark upon his sudden high colour and the steely glint in his tired, bloodshot blue eyes.
For the envelope Mikal deposited in her hands bore a familiar hand on its front, and the seal – heavy and waxen – was Victrix’s personal device.
The Queen called, and her faithful servant hurried to obey, leaving the mentath to breakfast and loneliness.
Chapter Five
With No One to Scold
Shut me up like a child, will you? Clare’s pipe puffed fragrant tabac-smoke, furiously. He glowered at the grate, unable to enjoy the comforts of a charming, familiar Mayefair room. There are other matters for you to attend to. More important ones, surely.
He was, perhaps, being ridiculous.
Perhaps? No. You are definitely being ridiculous.
It did not sting so much that Miss Bannon had taken him to task. What pinched was that she was correct in doing so. He had been rather lax when it came to his duty to the Queen.
But Vance was such a damn nuisance. And it was twice now that Clare had been outplayed rather badly by the man. It most certainly did not help that there was no earthly reason why the sodding brute would want the statue of Bhestet, carven from a single priceless blue gem. It was more of a gauntlet, a game, than an actual theft.
A game Clare had lost; a gauntlet he had not returned.
His pipe-puffing slowed, turned meditative. Tabac smoke rose in a grey veil, and near the ceiling it crackled, a charm activating to shape it into a globe of compressed mist, whisking it towards the fireplace and up the chimney. That was new, and he could almost see Miss Bannon’s pleased expression when he mentioned that such a thing was dashed illogical but useful enough.
What was Vance, to him? Clare was one of the Queen’s Own mentaths, his registration secure and his retirement assured by pension, since he had rendered such signal services during a few affairs of interest to the Crown. The first had, of course, been the most strenuous. And no few of the following affairs had involved Miss Bannon as well. They were rather an effective pair of operatives, Clare had to admit. Miss Bannon was very… logical, for a sorceress. Her capacity was admirable, her ruthlessness and loyalty both quite extraordinary, especially for a woman. Clare had his career, and Miss Bannon’s regard, and his own not-inconsiderable list of achievements. What did Vance have? A chair at a university he had been hounded from, a dead wife and a respectable career gone…
… a criminal empire, and the Eye of Bhestet, now. And the satisfaction of winning.
Clare puffed even more slowly. Perhaps he should take a fraction of coja while he meditated upon the question of Dr Vance and his own response to the man?
At that precise moment, however, there was a token knock at the door, and Valentinelli slunk in, his pox-scarred face a thundercloud. He carried two Gladstones, and behind him trooped the cadaverous Finch supervising two footmen and a charm-cart carrying a brace of trunks.
Horace, and Gilburn. Clare found their names and the mental drawers holding their particulars with no difficulty. Like all Miss Bannon’s servants, they had their peculiar ities. Horace was missing half the smallest finger on his left hand, and Gilburn’s slow, stately pace was less the result of decorum than of his Altered left leg – everything below the knee was gone, due to an accident Clare had not quite gained the details of yet, replaced with a tibia and fibula of slender dark metal chased with pain-suppressant and oiling charms; the limb terminated in a clockwork foot that was a marvel of delicate architecture. Miss Bannon had remarked once that she had contracted especially for the Alteration, since Gilburn had received great injury in her service, and the man had blushed, ducking his head like a schoolboy. For all that, he was quiet and well-oiled, and Horace often tucked his mutilated finger away or wore a glove with padding to hide it.
The more Clare saw of Miss Bannon’s servants, the more he suspected quite a tender heart behind the sorceress’s fearsome ruthlessness. Or perhaps Miss Bannon knew that there was no gratitude quite like that of a disfigured servant given back his or her pride and held to high expectations of performance.
And no loyalty like that of an outcast given a home.
It was a testament to the complexity of the sorceress’s character that Clare could not quite decide which or what combination of considerations led to her policy.
“Eh, mentale.” Ludovico dropped both heavy leather bags near the fireplace. “Where you want the trunks?”
“I am certain wherever those excellent fellows choose to set them will be quite proper.” Clare made a small movement with his still fuming pipe. “Did you bring my alembics?”
“Am I your donna di servizio? Pah!” The Neapolitan made as if to spit, but visibly considered better of it. “Baerbarth will bring those. He is still packing.”
Dear God. “I do not intend to abuse Miss Bannon’s hospitality to such a degree—”
“Oh, what you intend and what la strega intend, they are not the same.” Ludo waved one dusky, calloused hand. “I have letters, too.” He toed one of the Gladstones and crouched to unbuckle it, keeping a wary eye on the two footmen. “Many, many letters.”
Clare suppressed a groan.
“Will you be needing these unpacked, sir?” Gilburn said, laboriously seeking to disguise his heavy Dorset accent.
“Yes indeed.” Valentinelli snorted. “I am not unpacking, and he is weak as kitten.”
“For God’s sake, I’m not an invalid!” Clare prepared himself to take issue with this treatment.
“Do you rise from that chair, sir, I shall make certain you reoccupy it just as swiftly.” It was Clare’s least favourite of Valentinelli’s voices, the crisp consonants and upper-crust drawl of a bored Exfall student. The Neapolitan often employed such an accent when he felt Clare to be behaving ridiculously in some manner. “For the time being, we are abusing Miss Bannon’s hospitality roundly.” His tone changed a fraction as he dove into one of the Gladstones. “I thought we lost you last night, mentale.”
“It was merely a trifle, my good man. Merely a bit of chest pain—”
“You make a bad liar, sir.” Valentinelli nodded as the footmen began unbuckling the trunks. “Here, I bring your post to your chair, as good valet should.”
I do not need any damn letters or a thrice-damned Neapolitan valet. What I need is to catch Vance and put him in the bloody dock, and for you and Miss Bannon to cease this ridiculousness. Still, duty called, and Clare’s legs were decidedly unsteady. It was, he had to admit, a relief to have some of his effects brought to him. Except for the galling fact of Dr Vance’s escape, a stay at 34½ Brooke Street did sound quite pleasant. Tonic, even.
But being treated like a child was insufferable. He sank into silence, even the soothing tabac smoke overpowered by quite reasonable irritation.
“Here.” Valentinelli brought the lapdesk, a cunningly constructed item of wood inlaid with hammered brass. A fat sheaf of paper – envelopes, with varying handwriting, all addressed to Mr Archibald Clare, Esq. – landed atop it, and Valentinelli busied himself with exchanging the bowl of pipe ash at Clare’s elbow with a fresh cut-crystal tray, then scooping up a pen, ivory letter opener, and a silver-chased ink bottle from the massive table in the centre of the apartment. “You are like la suocera with none to scold.”
Clare could have cheerfully cursed at him, and perhaps would have, had they been at his own address. His landlady, the redoubtable Mrs Ginn, did not like Valentinelli, and Clare wondered what she thought of this turn of events.
With a sigh, he turned himself to the first envelope. It was addressed f
rom Lancashire, the handwriting female and gently bred, even if the ink was cheap. Impoverished gentry, probably seeking some guess as to the whereabouts of a missing husband.
There were precious few surprises in any piece of mail he opened, and his faculties rebelled at the slow rot triggered by want of proper use. That was half the trouble – Vance and his exploits were, at least, interesting.
Another heavy sigh, and Clare opened the envelope. Duty. Ever duty.
Perhaps Miss Bannon’s responsibilities weighed as onerously as his, but she certainly never seemed bored.
Dear Sir, I am writing to you in great distress… my husband Thomas has disappeared and…
Another deep, tabac-scented, involuntary sigh, and Clare set to work.
Chapter Six
One of Our Own
It was an occasion of little pomp, but great publicity. “You may approach.” Alexandrina Victrix, Britannia’s chosen vessel, ruler of the Isles and Empress of Indus, sat straight-backed on her gem-laden throne, the Stone of Scorn underneath one leg glowing soft silver. The hexagonal Throne Room, its vast glass ceiling full of rainy Londinium mornlight, was nevertheless full of shadowed corners behind and between marble columns, and in one such corner was a deeper shadow.
Emma held the glamour soft and still, though an alert observer would catch any movement she made, or perhaps a gleam from her jewellery. True invisibility was difficult and painfully draining, but simply blending into shadow was so easy as to be childishly entertaining. Mikal was a soft-breathing warmth at her back, and Eli would be in the gallery above, moving silent as a fish in deep water.
He hunted best while drifting.
The Queen’s dark hair frothed in ringlets near her ears, the back put up as a married woman’s should be, and her soft face blurred like clay under running water. Her eyes had turned infinitely dark, tiny speckles of starlight in their depths as the ruling spirit of the Isle woke slightly and peered out of its vessel. The Queen’s youthful figure had thickened, pregnancy swelling the outline of the girl Emma Bannon had sworn service to.
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