The Iron Wyrm Affair

by Lilith Saintcrow

  They stood in serried ranks, each shrouded in canvas, slump-shouldered shapes three times as high as a man and broad as a shay. Two protuberances gleaming of metal peeked out from under each sheet of canvas, and Clare blinked fiercely, deducing. I wonder—

  But there was no time for wondering. There was a fluttering motion atop one of the mysterious shapes. A small, definite click echoed through the dimness, and an unfamiliar male voice broke the hush.

  “Move, and I shoot.”

  Clare’s smile was broad – and, he hoped, invisible in the bad lighting. He lifted his own pistol, and noted, without any surprise at all, that Valentinelli had once again disappeared. “Mr Cecil J. Throckmorton, I presume?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Introductions Can Wait

  The curricle was left at Childe’s excellent stable, and Bannon was glad she’d found her fellow Prime in a good mood. For not only did she have another Shield, but Childe had also pressed the use of a smart ivy-coloured landaulet on her; drawn by white and silver clockhorses, it was a darling little vehicle that had an absolutely bone-rattling ride. It mattered little at this speed.

  For she had a rather pressing idea that Clare was in some trouble. The Bocannon she had given him was uneasy, scenting harmful sorcery in his vicinity and twitching the fine invisible thread tied to her consciousness. Which meant that, like a dach’s-hund down a rathole, Archibald Clare had flushed prey she was interested in and would soon have a snout in dire danger of clawmarks.

  Eli drove, and handled the carriage rather well. “Serene” was an understatement – the Shield looked half asleep, and only the grip of his hands on the reins betrayed him as, indeed, alert. His hair combed back from his face in the sulphurous breeze, the air bringing colour to his cheeks, and Mikal on her other side was a red and black thundercloud of tightly leashed frustration.

  Serves him right. But she could not fault him overmuch. She was, indeed, a spectacular failure at femininity – except in the area of weakness. For last night had been merely that. Had she been born a man…

  What? Had you been born a man, you would be Llewellyn. That is what drew you to him, was it not? Deep down, Emma, you do not care.

  Then why did she put herself to this trouble?

  Enough. Think of what you will do when you reach the man you sent scurrying off with only Valentinelli to protect him. The situation has changed somewhat, even without the addition of a dragon so old he slept even before the Age of Flame. If the Duchess and Conroy have their fingers in this, it is not likely to end well. Victrix will not thank me if I injure – or, God forbid, murder – her mother, even if she hates the woman and Britannia would more than likely approve.

  The thin, fine invisible thread twitched again, more definitely this time. Her gloved hand flashed out, and a witchball sizzled into being. Her concentration narrowed as the globe of brilliance sped forward, settling in front of the clockhorses. Stray sparks of sorcery crackled, and traffic on the avenue drew away like water retreating from oil. Eli’s chin dipped slightly, a fractional nod, and Emma settled back, impatience thinly controlled as the Shield piloted the juddering vehicle in the witchball’s wake. The invisible strand twitched once more, more definitely, and the Bocannon she had given the mentath woke fully.

  Clare was indeed in a great deal of trouble. Tideturn was approaching, and traffic was thick. Even with a Shield pressing the horses onwards and a free witchball before them warning all Londinium that a sorcerer was in a hurry, she would likely be too late.

  The warehouse slumped under a bruise-ugly yellowgreen sky, banks of opaque fog drawing back as thunder rumbled uneasily. A storm coming up the Themis, perhaps, or a deeper unsettling. The elegant, powerful shell of sorcery laid over the building to disguise it would have been enough to make Emma’s gaze simply slide past – if the Bocannon had not already been inside, and had she not been gripping Mikal’s arm so tightly her fingers ached.

  There!

  The witchball sizzled, gathering momentum as Eli hauled back on the reins, Mikal flowing half upright, the veil plastered to Emma’s damp face and stormlight prickling her tender eyes. Thunder rattled again, far to the north. The witchball arrowed forward, splashing into the glimmering not-quite-visible shield over the slumping warehouse, and fine silver traceries flashed, digging into the coaldust-sheathed sides. The horses pranced, more sparks snapping, and the landaulet jolted to a stop. Emma was already moving, gathering her skirts, and Mikal had anticipated her. His boots hit the hard-packed dirt, he turned; his hands were at her waist and he lifted her down in one motion.

  “Clare!” she snapped. “Find him, and protect him!”

  A single yellow-fuming glance, and he was gone. One of the smaller warehouse doors had been broken in – Valentinelli, she would lay money on it – and the other Shield was suddenly beside her as she ran breathlessly in Mikal’s wake.

  The building shuddered as the defences on it woke fully, cracks veining the coaldust casing as she fed more force through the erstwhile witchball. An unsecured globe of sorcerous energy was difficult to control – but it was also plastic, and it reacted to the sudden cramping of the defences with a vengeance. Londinium fog flushed as the sun dipped, another peal of thunder resounded, and the coaldust cracked, shivering away from grey stone just before Mikal nipped smartly through the door in search of Clare.

  Emma plunged into a close, stinking passageway, her eyes suddenly relieved of the burden of bright light and picking out details in the flimsy wooden walls. She skidded out into the warehouse itself, her skirts all but snapping as Eli’s hand closed around her arm and gave a terrific, shoulder-popping yank.

  The Shield pivoted, pulling her to the side as something crashed into the wooden archway they had just cleared. The earth shook, and Emma groped to find the source of the attack. It was not sorcerous, she realised, just as Eli shoved her aside again and gave a short sharp yell.

  What in God’s—

  It rose from wooden wreckage, gleaming and mechanical, its oddly articulated arms creaking as the man closed in its casing let out a piercing shriek of unholy glee. Emma screamed, terror seizing her, and sorcerous force struck. It was a blind, instinctive assault, force spent recklessly, and it had precious little effect.

  The mechanical casing hunched, eerily mimicking the movements of the man inside it. The head was a smooth dome, its shoulders high so it shambled and slouched; its feet were oval cups. Cogs whirred and ground. Oil dripped from shining metal, and the thing screeched like a hound from brimstoned Hell.

  The man shook his head, cogs sparking and grinding as the casing’s domed top replicated the movement. It looked like a squat, bronze bald frog, especially as the controller sank back and it bent its oversized knees. The arms came up, fuming smoke pouring from the left, and a large hole pointed straight at her.

  “Hiiiiiiii!” The yell came from a human throat, but a grinding rumble swallowed the last of it. A metallic gleam lurched, and Emma’s faculties almost deserted her as a second monstrosity shambled forward, its stubby arms rising in a weirdly graceful arc. The first thing’s left-hand barrel was knocked skywards, a deafening roar sounded, and a hole opened in the roof. Stormlight poured in, and the sorcerous defences cracked yet further, sagging.

  Emma backpedalled blindly, scrambling, her legs tangled in her skirts and her veil torn, her hat knocked askew, curls falling in her face. Eli yanked her again, and her abused shoulder flared with dull red pain. She realised she was screaming, could not help herself. The thing was not sorcerous; her mental grasp could not close around it and crush it. It simply shunted the force aside, spending it uselessly, and fresh terror clawed at her vitals.

  The right-hand barrel lowered, pointing at her. The man inside the casing laughed, shrilly. There was a flicker of movement, bright knives lifted, and Mikal’s feet slipped, seeking vainly for purchase on the thing’s domed head. He fell, but twisted catlike in mid-air, and the knives flashed again as he drove both at the chest of the thing’s i
nternal rider. They missed, one skittering across the glowing golden disc; it cracked and fizzed, bleeding sparks.

  The second metal abomination staggered, its dome head swivelling. But it lurched forward, and knocked aside the second gun just as it spoke.

  Confusion. A massive noise, a geyser of dirt and splinters. And something else, invisible threads tightening.

  The sorcerer was in the shadows, and she could sense his Shields. She recognised him just as Mikal hit the ground, curling and springing up. She saw messy tangled hair, fingers curled into a half-recognised Gesture, charter symbols spitting venomous crimson as they roiled between his palms.

  Kill his Shields. Don’t kill him. You need him alive for questioning, and he is only—

  But before she could finish the thought, he cast the bolt of crimson charter charm. He could not have expected it to hold her or even damage her, for he immediately lunged backwards – but Eli knocked into her from the side as a flash of gunpowder igniting added to the confusion, driving the breath from her in a sharp huff and killing the chant rising to her lips.

  One of the sorcerer’s Shields had fired a pistol. And Mikal was otherwise occupied.

  Gears screeched, grinding, and the falling-cathedral noise of a sorcerer’s death filled the factory. No! No, don’t kill him, I need him for questioning, Mikal!

  Something atop her, pressing down. She struggled, treacherous skirts suddenly chains, her wrists caught in a bruising grip. “Pax!” someone yelled in her ear, her head ringing and swimming. “Pax, Prima!”

  She went limp, ribs flickering as they heaved with deep drilling breaths.

  What was that? Dear God, what was that?

  Eli rolled aside, and as he pulled her to her feet Emma stared at the slumped mountain of metal. Its chest was empty now, the golden circle dead and cracked, lifeless. Shouts and clashing metal, Mikal’s hissing battle cry rising over the din.

  The second thing clicked, humming as its arms lowered, and Archibald Clare, his lean face alight with glee, hung inside its chest. It replicated his movements uncannily, a glowing golden circle strapped to his chest like a flat witchball. The glow threw his features into sharp relief, his hair blew back, and the metal structure around him creaked and shuddered.

  The circle of light dimmed. Mikal appeared, glanced at Clare inside the metal abomination, visibly decided he was not a threat, and turned on his heel. Stopped, staring at Emma, whose knees were decidedly not performing their function of holding her up with their usual aplomb and reliability. Eli held her arm, not hard but very definitely, bracing her.

  The light at Clare’s chest snuffed itself. “Most…” The mentath’s speech slurred. “Most intrig—Oh, hell.”

  Ludovico Valentinelli, singed and bleeding, appeared out of the gloom. A stolid older man with massive side whiskers also appeared, and Emma blinked. What in God’s name just happened here? What are those… things?

  “Sig!” Clare sounded drunk, or perhaps so exhausted his lips were numb. “Come… damn straps, man. Help me.”

  “Ja.” The stranger, his whiskers half singed as well, climbed up the metal man-thing with quick dexterity. He began fiddling with the straps holding Clare inside it, and the mentath sighed wearily, closing his blue eyes.

  Emma told herself firmly that now was not the time to engage in a screaming fit, or a swoon, though both would indeed be very welcome.

  “Are you well?” Mikal was suddenly before her, his face inches from hers. “Prima? Emma?”

  “Sorcery does not affect it,” she managed, in nothing like her usual tone. “Dear gods. Sorcery did not even touch it.”

  That caught Clare’s attention. “Rather… regrettable… side effect.” The words slurred together alarmingly. Had the man been at gin? If he had, Emma rather hoped he had saved some. She could do with a tot of something stronger than tea at the moment.

  Leather creaked, and the man with side whiskers cursed under his breath. Valentinelli peered up at the twisted ruin of the other metal monster, whistling low and tunelessly.

  “Here.” Mikal had a flask, held it to her lips. Rum burned; she took a grateful swallow. Her eyes stung, and it was a good thing Tideturn was soon. She had expended a truly ridiculous amount of ætheric charge on the thing, and it had not even affected it.

  There were shapes under canvas standing in serried ranks all through the building’s maw. They were all roughly the same size and shape as the mechanisterum abominations uncloaked before her. She took another long swallow of fiery liquid; it burned all the way down, and she handed the flask back to Mikal with numb fingers.

  And… yes, her sensitised eyes pierced the gloom with little trouble. There was a body on the floor. She studied it and breathed a most impolite term. “That… is Devon. Hugh Devon.” She sounded half witless, even to herself. “I needed him for questioning… oh, blast and bother and Hellfire.”

  “Rather… changes things.” Clare almost fell; the side-whiskered stranger braced him, and they negotiated the distance to the ground more gracefully than seemed possible, given Clare’s slurring and the portly stranger’s girth. “Miss… Bannon. We need… to talk.”

  “Well, rather.” The irritation was a tonic; she braced her fists on her hips and tilted her head. Whoever had been inside the wrecked abomination had made good his escape; that was an annoyance as well. “Someone will be along soon to see this mess. I suggest we repair to a far more suitable location. Where on earth is the brougham I engaged to—”

  “Strega. I take them.” Valentinelli did not turn away from the corpse. “What we do with body, eh?”

  Clare leaned on his stout friend. The sulphurous glow sliding through the holes in the roof dimmed, and Emma did not like that, despite the comfort it afforded her aching eyes.

  “Well, if he was alive I could question him.” She tapped one gloved finger against her lips. I sound as if my nerves are steady. Thank God. Who was in that… thing? And Devon, dead.

  “I broke his neck. But his head is still intact.” Mikal’s tone could best be described as sullen.

  Well, there is that. “Ah. Yes. I see.” She decided. “Very well, bring him. Ludovico, do take Mr Clare and his companion to my home. Formal introductions can wait until we are not here. We shall join you soon.” She eyed the mentath, who swayed. His colour was not good at all, and his thinning hair stood straight up, grimed with soot. “And mind the mentath, he looks a bit—”

  Clare’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed. And Emma felt the chill along her fingers and toes that meant the Shadow had taken an interest in proceedings. She did not know how long they had before it arrived and must be dealt with, and she had expended far more force than she wished attacking the metal… thing.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” she breathed, just as the light failed completely.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Unpleasant, But Instructive

  Clare clasped the crackling brown paper, soaked with vinegar, to his aching head. “Unpleasant,” he murmured. “Highly unpleasant. But instructive.”

  “I am glad to hear your afternoon went so well,” Miss Bannon replied. “Mine was equally instructive, and it was very disagreeable dealing with the Shadow near the Tower. But, my dear Mr Clare, please answer me. What in the name of the seven Hells were those… things? Sorcery does not touch them; this upsets me a great deal.”

  He shifted on the fainting-couch. The sitting room was very comfortable, despite the tension sparking in every corner. “Obviously. I am trying to find a word that would explain them to a layman, but the best I can do is homunculus or golem. Neither is precise, mind you, but—”

  “Mr Clare.” Quietly, but with great force. “Kindly do not become distracted, sir. I have a dead body in my study that grows no fresher, and I cannot question the man’s shade effectively unless and until I have some answers from you.” Her tone grew sharper. “And Ludo, darling? Stop whistling, or I shall sew your lips together.”

  Clare peeled open one eye to see Miss
Bannon perched on a low stool at his side, high colour in her cheeks and her hair most fetchingly disarranged. Behind her, Sigmund’s wide faithful face loomed. The Bavarian was chewing on something that rather startlingly resembled a wurst and a slice of yellow cheese.

  “Ah.” Clare cleared his throat. “Miss Bannon, may I present to you Mr Sigmund Baerbarth, genius, and my personal friend? Sig, this is Miss Bannon, a most interesting sorceress.”

  “How do you do,” Miss Bannon said over her shoulder, and Sig nodded, swallowing hastily.

  “Seer geehrte, Fraulein Bannon.”

  The sorceress returned her dark gaze to Clare, who had gathered himself sufficiently to face such an examination calmly. The vinegar did not help much. “Pray fetch me some ice and salt, if you would. My head aches abominably.”

  Bannon glanced over her shoulder again, her jet earrings swinging, and there was a murmur from the door. There seemed a large number of people crowding the sitting room. The rain had started, and its patter against the window panes was an additional irritation. When she again returned her attention to him, her mien had softened.

  “You saved my life, Mr Clare.” Her childlike face was sombre now. And yes – those were her gloved fingers, delicately holding his free hand. “That thing had cannons on its… arms, I suppose one would call them. Who was controlling the other one?”

  “Hm. Well, yes.” An uncomfortable heat mounted in his cheeks. Her little hand was trembling; he could feel it through the kidskin. “Bit of quick thinking, that. It was a mentath. Throckmorton.”

  “Remarkably spry for a dead man. He escaped. Helped by Mr Devon’s Shields, I am told, which is shocking enough. I am quite put out that Mr Devon was not captured alive.”