The Iron Wyrm Affair

by Lilith Saintcrow

  It was, Emma reflected as Mikal steered the horses past the chill-white, massive Great Staircase, a very good metaphor for sorcerers in general.

  The Library’s white dome was low compared to the jabbing snowy enamel spires of the rest of the Collegia, but it was still large enough to swallow the Leather Market whole and ask for seconds. Mikal pulled the horses to a stop and a Collegia indentured appeared to take charge of them; her Shield leapt down from the curricle and Emma gathered her skirts.

  This should prove interesting.

  The Library’s dome glowed, stone scraped thin enough to let sunshine through. In that drenching, directionless light, flapping shadows moved. They circled in small flocks, sometimes lighting on the tops of high shelves, other times fluttering toward the gigantic nautilus-curled circulation counter. A vast central well, five storeys of bookshelves rising around it and raying out in long spiralling stacks, was enough to make one dizzy. Balustrades of ivory and mother-of-pearl, the carpeting rich blue; the Library glowed with nacre, the smell of paper mixing with a faint breath of salt and sand. Thin cries could be heard as some of the books fluttered aloft, gaining altitude and swooping with gawky grace.

  Mikal followed, perhaps more closely than was strictly necessary. But then, his life was forfeit here. A Shield could not be taken from a Prime’s service and put to death, no matter the crime he had committed. The law was very clear on that point – even if the Shield in question had done the unthinkable and murdered his own sorcerer.

  No other sorcerer was willing to run the risk of taking him in. None of her fellow Primes – indeed, no sorcerer, and no other person – knew precisely what had happened in that small room in the bowels of Crawford’s palatial home, because she had steadfastly maintained her silence. As far as she could tell, so had Mikal. Yet the fact of his survival in her service, and Crawford’s demise, could not be ignored; it shouted to the heavens what had most likely occurred.

  It is you, or the chopping block, he had said, his jaw iron-hard and his eyes glowing venomously. I prefer you. If you will not take my service, do me the courtesy of killing me yourself. I will let you.

  And Emma had believed him. Her fingers still tingled with the feel of his chest underneath her touch, the rasp of subtle scaling—

  Stop it. You are not here to daydream. She stalked for the circulation desk, shaking herself out of memory with a sharp disciplined mental effort. It would be easy to believe Mikal felt… what?

  Nothing she could trust. It was best to remember that.

  Behind the desk, a tangle-haired witch in no-nonsense grey wool glanced up, startled by her approach. Of course, any livrewitch would feel a Prime’s approach like a storm bearing down on a small sloop. Especially here at the Collegia, where sorcery vied for air as the most common medium.

  This livrewitch was plump, her hazel eyes unfocused, and she swayed slightly as she gripped the desk’s edge until she adjusted to the disturbance Emma represented. “Title?” she chirped, in a colourless little voice. Her dishwater hair was a rat’s nest, matted locks hanging and others piled high with a collection of bones, small shiny bits of metal, and feathers. “Author? Catalogue number? Cover colour? Subject?”

  “Principia Draconis.” Emma fought back a curling lip. Witches. Male and female both specialised young, and by the time they reached twenty their brains were capable of holding only their Discipline. Theirs were not the deep Disciplines of the Inexhaustible – fire, water, magnetism, creation, destruction – but the tiny niches. Swallows nesting in a cliffside, and never straying far from their tiny holes.

  Do not pity the witches, a teacher had once intoned. They are not less than sorcerers. They are far happier than you shall ever be – for they lack ambition. They find their joy in their Discipline, not their danger.

  “Principia Draconis,” the livrewitch repeated, slowly. A shuffling movement went through the flocks of books, shelves moving as the Library sought inside itself. “De Baronis, originally, 1533. Amberforth updated and glossed in 1746; James Wilson in 1801. Eight hundred pages, folio, cover is—”

  “Bannon.” The sneering behind Emma could only come from one man. “Still bringing trash into hallowed halls, I see.”

  “Lord Huston.” She inclined her head, but did not turn. “Still unacquainted with basic etiquette, I see.”

  “Ladies are due etiquette, Bannon.” The Headmaster’s cane – an affectation, of course, with its silver mallard’s head – hit the carpeting. He must have forgotten he wasn’t in one of the stone-floored halls, where the tapping of his progress would send a wave of dread through the sensitised fabric of reality.

  Mikal moved, a susurrus of cloth as he faced the Headmaster. Emma kept her gaze on the livrewitch, who was mumbling. At any moment the book would appear, and she could give the Headmaster short shrift before taking herself to a study table to do some quiet digging.

  “And the trash seems to have ideas.” Mock-surprised. “When are you going to take a proper Shield, Bannon? If any will serve with that murdering apostate behind you.”

  “Be careful, little man.” Bannon allowed her right toe to lift and tap the carpet precisely once. Her skirts would cover it, but she was still annoyed at the movement. He was Prime, yes – but just barely. Had he not been extraordinarily lucky, he would be merely an Adept, or even a Master Sorcerer, since his Examination scores had been dreadful. “I am not a student.”

  “A sorcerer who ceases to learn ceases to thrive,” he intoned piously. “Whatever are you doing here, then, if you are no longer learning?”

  “The Library is open to every Adept and above, at every hour.” It was her turn to sound pious. “Or perhaps you’d forgotten that Law?”

  A direct hit. “I forget no Laws,” he hissed. “You are the one who has a Shield who no doubt murdered his charge. You should hand him over to justice.”

  Her temper stretched. “If you challenge me for one of my possessions, Huston, I might almost think you’ve grown tired of breathing.”

  The Library’s rustling silence took on a sonorous, uneasy depth. I do not have time for a duel today, Alfred, Lord Huston. Take advantage of that. For a moment she considered how easy it would be to see him as a conspirator and administer appropriate justice.

  The thought almost managed to soothe her.

  “The Principia Draconis is not here.” The livrewitch cocked her tangled head, the words a thin reedy murmur as she clasped her hands. Her gaze was already sliding away, uninterested in the drama before her. “It has been borrowed.”

  “That is quite impossible.” Emma’s temper rose afresh; she bottled it. Today was already unpleasant, and it was early for her to be so irritated. “It is one of the Great Texts; it is not to leave the Library.”

  Huston’s sneer was absolutely audible. “Oh, the Principia? I believe Lord Sellwyth wished to peruse it at leisure; I gave my approval. Since he is such a special friend to the Collegia.”

  For a moment, Emma Bannon literally could not believe her ears. Books fluttered nervously, several taking wing from the carved banisters. Shadows darted, and she turned on her heel, the cameo at her throat warming dangerously. Her skirts belled, and Mikal took a half-step to the side, his broad back tense under green velvet. No blades were visible yet – of course, if he drew, she would be hard pressed to calm the layers of ancient stifling protection meant to safeguard students from misfired lessons.

  Even the simplest spell could kill, here. Bloodlust on Collegia grounds carried a heavy price.

  Huston, his scarecrow form in an antiquated black suit, collar tied high and snowy cravat under his chin as if Georgus IV was still Britannia’s vessel, actually paled and stepped back. Thin strings of bootblack hair crossed his domed cranium, and if Emma had been a devotee of phrenologomancy she might well have decided to examine his skull for an organ of Cowardice and one of Idiocy to boot.

  With a hammer, or another suitably blunt bludgeoning tool.

  His breeches were spotless, and a perfume
d handkerchief frothed in his free hand. The man even wore dandy boots, the toe pointed and heel arched. The clicking of his cane was usually followed by the soft tapping of his heels, a sound that featured in student nightmares. Long bony strangler’s fingers, his right hand bearing the heavy carnelian Collegia Seal, spasmed on the silver duck’s head.

  The light in here was too damnably bright, but it was Emma’s stinging eyes that reminded her of her priorities. The veil, thankfully, might hide her expression. “You…” She did not cough, but she did pause. “You allowed Llewellyn Gwynnfud to take a Great Text from the Collegia Library? The Principia Draconis?” She congratulated herself on only sounding mildly surprised. “When was this? I ask, Lord Huston, only to be quite accurate when I make my report.”

  “Report?” Now Huston was positively chalky. He would have no idea to whom she would make such a report, but the creeping cowardice of petty officialdom ran to his very marrow. The Seal made a scratching noise, the carnelian shifting from a carving of Pegasus to the double serpents of Mordred’s time. It was, she reflected, far too large for his fingers.

  “Yes.” She also wondered – and not for the first time – precisely which charm he used to colour his hair. The dual thoughts bled her anger away. A dangerous calm closed over her. “When was it, sir?”

  “Well, let’s see… hmmm… that is…” He tapped the head of his cane with one manicured index finger. “You know, I cannot quite—”

  “Principia Draconis. Checked out. A fortnight ago exactly,” the livrewitch said dreamily. “The Psychometry books were restless that day. So was the Bestiary section. It took some work to calm them. They are not exercised enough.”

  Huston’s expression was priceless. Emma smoothed her gloves. “Thank you. That will be all. Come, Mikal.” Dismissive, she set off for the entrance. Well. A mostly wasted trip. But now I know you are to be mistrusted to an even greater degree than I did before.

  And that is very valuable knowledge.

  Her Shield fell into step behind her. There was a sound from above – a student perhaps, witnessing the exchange. This would be round meat indeed for them. Only the almost randomness of Huston’s malignancy made a revolt in the student ranks unlikely. Besides, he largely allowed the professors to do as they pleased, and they liked the power so much they kept him firmly seated at the helm of the Collegia.

  Or what he believed was the helm.

  “Harlot.” Whispered just loud enough to be an insult. “Whore.”

  It was the oldest insult hurled at a sorceress – or indeed, at any woman who did not do what a small man wished. Did he expect it to sting?

  If only you knew, you bastard bureaucrat. Other words rose; she considered each one and decided a lady would not speak them, so she certainly would not.

  Her back was alive with Mikal’s nearness. She swept out of the Library with rushing blood filling her ears. Outside, the sorcerously cleansed air still reeked of Londinium’s disease. Nevertheless, she stopped and took a deep breath.

  “Prima?” Mikal, his tone promising vengeance, should she want it. She would be well within her rights to call Huston to the duelling ground – but she would have only Mikal and a livrewitch for witnesses. It would not do.

  She would merely remember this, as she remembered so much else. A Prime’s life was long, and she would see Huston falter one day. “Leave it.” She did not have to try very hard to sound weary. “He is of little account. Besides, there is another copy of the Principia.”

  “Indeed? Where?”

  “At Childe’s. Fetch the curricle.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Better Your Sausage Than Your Life

  The mystery of Valentinelli’s disappearance was solved in spectacular fashion. At least, Clare decided that the body falling from the rafters was intimately connected to the Neapolitan’s vanishing, even as he leapt – in a display of agility surprising even himself – and hit Sigmund squarely, knocking the burly Bavarian and his chair over. A tangle of arms and legs, Sig’s wurst and cheese went flying, and the body thudded on to the carpet as the grate exploded with blue flame.

  Clare freed himself with a violent, wrenching twist, losing his top hat, and made it up to one knee, his freshly loaded silver-chased pepperbox pistol out. Smoke billowed, and Sigmund had regained his breath, to judge by the volume of curses in German coming from his quarter. Already it was difficult to see, smoke stinging Clare’s eyes, and for a terrible moment he was swallowed by the memory of last night’s irrationality.

  LOGIC! he bellowed inwardly, jerking to the side as something whooshed through the smoke near his head. Smoke, a body from the ceiling – multiple attackers; the Neapolitan may be injured but I think it unlikely. The smoke is to confuse us.

  The motive was not simply murder, he decided. Which raised some interesting questions he had no time to consider, for there was a movement in the smoke. Too tall to be the Italian, and moving incautiously. Do something, Clare!

  Sigmund was still cursing.

  “Quiet, man!” Clare barked, and his free hand closed around one of Sig’s spanners, dropped next to the spilled chair. He scooped it up and flung it, calculation flashing just under the surface of his consciousness so quickly he was barely aware of the motion. His aim was true; there was a muffled scream of pain, and Clare dived to the side, fetching up against the Bavarian again. “Stay low,” he whispered fiercely, and his busy faculties cross-checked an internal dictionary. “Unten blieben!”

  “Ja!” Sig whispered back, and they set off, crawling, away from the coal grate and its belching black smoke. “Verdammt sie! Meine Wurst!”

  Better your sausage than your life, man! Clare kept the pistol pointed carefully away. “Crawl! Kriechen!”

  “I remember my English, mein Herr!” Damn the man, he actually sounded offended. “My workshop! What do they do with my workshop?”

  I only have three shots. Choose them carefully. “Weapons! Do you have any weapons?”

  “I haf—” But whatever Sigmund had remained unsaid, for there was a scream and the sound of clattering metal. “No! Scheisse, not my Spinne! Bastard!”

  Clare got a fistful of Sig’s jacket, hauling him back. The Bavarian went down in a heap, another dark shape loomed through the acrid smoke, and Clare’s hand jerked at the last moment, sending the shot wide.

  “Idioti.” Valentinelli bent down. His shirt was singed, and there was a spatter of blood on one of his pocked cheeks. “Put that away! Come!”

  “What is it?” Clare had a fair idea already, but it certainly never hurt to ask.

  “Alterato.” His ruined face alight, the assassin held a knife with the blade reversed against his forearm. There was a dark stain on his left knee, whether grease or blood Clare did not wish to venture. “To capture, not kill. This way.”

  Flashboys, perhaps. Come to kidnap me or Sig? We shall find out. “Good show. Sig old man—” A fierce whisper. “Sigmund!”

  “Aha!” The Bavarian appeared, crawling with surprising nimbleness for such a bulky man; he had found his wurst. He stuffed the remainder of the sausage in his mouth and scrambled after Clare.

  The Neapolitan was a wraith in the rapidly thinning smoke, bent almost double and moving with jerky efficiency. One sleeve of his pale shirt flapped slightly; he cast a look over his shoulder at Clare and vanished again, stepping sideways into the vapour. Clare coughed, spat to the side. Bulky metal shapes loomed. Sigmund cursed again, but very low. A scraping sound – Sig had found a weapon.

  Good.

  His ears strained, eyes burning from the acrid vapour, his left hand scraping on packed earth and scattered straw as he endeavoured to keep the pistol free in his right, Clare realised he had not been bored once since Miss Bannon’s appearance. Which was truly marvellous, and a relief for his busy faculties, but he could still wish things were not quite so bloody interesting.

  And why had he thought of her? The crystalline pendant, snug under his shirt, was oddly cold. Was this a dire enou
gh situation to warrant her attention? Probably not. He wished he had thought to find his hat before setting off at a crawl through Sigmund’s workshop—

  There was a wet crunching noise, and a soft cry. The smoke, draining in whorls and eddies, had lost none of its terrible stench. He motioned Sigmund aside; a huge metal carapace afforded a slightly safer hiding space. Inside, there was a tangle of sharp poking ends, but Clare pressed back nevertheless, and Sig crowded in beside him.

  “Mein Gott, what smell!” he whispered, and Clare was forced to agree.

  “Sulphur and agatesbreath, I believe.” Coal doesn’t burn hot enough to ignite it; how did they? Must experiment later. He readied the pistol, torn metal jabbing his jacket. “Be still.”

  More soft, stealthy scrapings. A clatter of metal; Sigmund twitched and breathed a rather filthy imprecation. The smoke became striations, behaving oddly, thick and greasy as it slid questing fingers over a broken clockhorse skeleton. The metal vibrated, resonating to a silent current of bloodlust, and Clare watched as a shape melted into view behind a screen of smoke.

  He was Altered, but not a flashboy. Lanky, dark-haired, unshaven in ill-fitting grey worsted, he placed his shoes carefully and edged through the smoky fingers, moving with jerky, oily care. The Alteration wasn’t visible, but Clare noted the irregularity under the rough homespun workman’s shirt and his gorge rose. Limbs were all very well, but Alteration of the trunk of the body? Not only was it expensive and dangerous, it was simply wrong.

  Sigmund, thankfully, had frozen. Whether he was immobilised by surprise or Teutonic rage was difficult to tell. Clare raised the pistol, the motion slow and dreamlike. The dry stone in his throat was unwelcome; it took effort to shelve the persistent nagging animal fear of being hunted. His mouth was dry, and his pulse pounded alarmingly. His ears heard each muffled beat, blurring together into a distracting roar.

  The Altered stiffened, his head tipping back. Valentinelli’s face appeared over his shoulder as his knees slowly buckled; the Neapolitan grabbed a fistful of dark hair and dragged the head back further. A swift jerking motion, then he slit the Altered man’s throat. Arterial spray bloomed, smoke flinched away, and the assassin breathed a soft love word as the Altered slumped.