The Iron Wyrm Affair

by Lilith Saintcrow

  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 ov
er 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—”

  “Will cease following you very soon; if he visits tomorrow, I may release the binding on him.”

  “Well, that’s just the thing.” Clare pinkened again. “He extends his regrets, but says he wishes no such thing. He rather likes the excitement, you see, though I’ve told him a mentath’s life is usually deadly boring. He says he has grown too old for his usual line of work, and I apparently need some looking after. He sounds like an old maiden aunt, frankly, and the sooner you send him on his merry way the better.”

  “Ah.” Her mouth wanted to twitch. Oh, Ludo. You have ideas, I see. “Well. He did seem to have taken a liking to you.” She took a mannerly sip of tea, finding it had cooled most agreeably. The savouries looked very appetising indeed, and she was hungry again. It would take time to regain the lost weight.

  “You mean, each time he threatens to duel me after your spell is taken off is a mark of affection? He is quite fond of that threat.”

  “He must enjoy your company.” And that bears watching too. “How very droll.”

  The conversation turned to other things, and Clare did his best to observe the pleasantries. It irked him, though, and she could see the irritation rising in him. After another cup and a few pastries he began the process of taking his leave. He had a question of research waiting for him at his lodgings, and regretted leaving her so soon, et cetera, et cetera.

  It was no surprise, though she did feel a slight sting.

  Emma rose, and offered her hand. “Mr Clare. Do be reasonable. You have endured much in the service of Britannia, and I thank you for your courage and the care you have shown for the Empire’s interests. You are under no social obligation to me. I know how sorcery… discommodes you.”

  He took her hand, pumped it twice. He was outright crimson now. “Not the case,” he mumbled, swallowed visibly. “Not the case at all. Miss Bannon, you are… You are a…”

  She waited, patiently. He did not turn loose her hand. There were many words he could choose. Sorceress. Bitch. Whore. Managing female.

  He finally found one that suited him, drew himself up. “You, Miss Bannon, are a very logical sorceress.”

  Her jaw threatened to drop. Of all the epithets flung at her, she had never experienced that one. A second, very queer lightness began in the region of Emma’s chest. “Thank you.”

  He nodded, dropped her hand as if it had burned him, and turned to leave.

  “Mr Clare.”

  He stopped next to a false orange tree. The climate globe around it jangled sweetly. His thinning hair did not disguise the way the skin over his pate was even more deeply crimson.

  Thankfully, she had a gift she could offer to match his own. “I trust your digestion is still sound?”

  “As a bell, madam.” He did not turn to face her.

  Emma took a deep breath. “May I invite you to dinner? Perhaps on Sunday? You may bring Ludovico, and Mr Baerbarth. If they wish to attend.” If they wish to avail themselves of my table without absolutely being required to do so. Odd. This is the first time that has occurred.

  Clare turned, retraced his steps, grabbed her hand, and pumped it furiously. “I say! Of course! Honoured to. Honoured. Sig will be beside himself.”

  “Sunday, then. Shall we say six? I dine early.”

  “Certainly!” And after a few more furious pumps of her hand, he was gone. She closed her eyes, tracing his progress through the house. Mr Finch let him out of the front door, and by the time Clare reached the laurel hedge he was whistling.

  She brought her attention back to the sunroom. Mikal would be along at any moment. Her hand had slid into her skirt pocket, and she drew forth the stone that had fallen from Llewellyn’s body. It had been on her nightstand when she awoke.

  Had Mikal placed it there? Did he have any idea what it was?

  It was deep red, flat on one side and curved on the other. Smooth and glassy, and when she tilted it, it throbbed. A pulse too deep for the stone’s shallowness, a slow, steady beat.

  Like a dragon’s heart, perchance.

  Two stones, and he was reserving one? One stone gifted to him in advance, one later? Or there was only one stone to begin with, and he was paid at the beginning? But how could they be certain he would do what they wished? And who among the wyrms would have slain one of their own young for this?

  Who crafted that simulacrum in Bedlam?

  She cupped the stone in her gloved hands. Its pulse slowed as it basked, drinking in the sunlight.

  The gryphons were at his body. And should I visit Dinas Emrys now, I would find nothing but anonymous bones. Still… it troubles me.

  Llewellyn Gwynnfud had always troubled her.

  It was difficult to undo her bodice, but she managed. She slid the stone against the bare skin of her chest, tucking it securely under the top edge of her corset. Uncomfortable, but only temporary.

  You are right, Mr Clare. Ther
e are quite a few unanswered questions.

  She breathed out a long, slow, single sorcerous Word.

  There was a melting sensation over her heart as the Philosopher’s Stone sank into her skin. A flush of warmth tingled through every particle of her flesh. Her head tipped back, and the solarium dimmed. The rush of flame in her veins was a welcoming heat, gentle and inviting.

  In the end, she decided, it mattered little. She was Prime and in the service of Britannia, and if another wyrm raised its head, she would crush it underfoot.

  Smiling, Emma Bannon set her bodice to rights, and decided on another cup of tea.

  Rankes of those Sorcerousse

  (taken from the Domesnight List)

  Minor: Charter1 (lightfinger, bakewell)

  Charmer (hedgecharmer, charing-charmer)

  Mancer (hevvymancer, pickmancer)

  Skellewreyn (not used past 17152)

  Commons: Witch3

  Major: Sorcerer

  Master Sorcerer

  Adeptus

  Prime

  … it is not required to possess a mentath’s faculties in order to Observe, and to reap the benefits of said observation. Indeed, many mentaths are singularly unconcerned with any event or thing outside their chosen field of study, while a rich treasure trove of wondrous variety unreels before their very noses. A mere observer skilled in the science of Deduction may surprise even a mentath, and has the added benefit of a great deal of practical knowledge and foresight ever at hand. The faculty of Observation lies within each man competent enough, and taught to, read; it may be strengthened with practice, and indeed grows ever stronger the more one exercizes it.

  If Observation is the foundation all Deduction is built upon, then the quality of Decision is the mortar holding fast the stones. Tiny details may be important, but it is of greatest necessitude to decide which details bear weight and which are chaff. Perfect, unclouded decision upon details is the purview of the Divine, and man’s angelic faculties, wonderful as they are, are merely a wretched imitation. Even that wretchedness can be useful, much as the example of Vice’s ultimate end may serve to keep Virtue from the wide and easy path to Ruin.