The Iron Wyrm Affair: Bannon and Clare: Book 1

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Clare crunched the last of his kippers and toast, washed it down with heavily lemoned tea, and decided to hazard a throw.

  “I say, signor. You have quite the noble carriage.”

  The Neapolitan gave him one swift, evil glance. He took another huge bite of sausage, let his mouth fall open while chewing. His scarred cheeks had turned pale.

  Clare dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “It is marvellously interesting that you are not a natural at rudeness. You were trained in fine manners. Your habit of performing the exact opposite of those manners gives you away.”

  A flush touched the Neapolitan’s neck. Clare smiled inwardly. It was so satisfying to deduce correctly.

  “A Campanian nobleman? Your accent, which you take pains to disguise, is too refined for anything else. But you left your homeland young, signor. You have adopted the English method of slurping tea, and you wear the watch chain as a costume piece instead of as a true hevvy or a carter would. And though you are no doubt very good with a dagger, it is the rapier that is your true love. Yours is an old house, where such things are still a mark of honour.”

  The Neapolitan grunted. His muscle-corded shoulders were tense.

  Clare was actually— Was he? Yes. He was enjoying himself. The man presented a solvable puzzle, not without its dangers but well worth a morning’s diversion.

  “Very well then, keep your secrets.” He considered another cup of tea, tapping his toe lightly. “This morning we shall go a-visiting. A friend of mine, or rather a close acquaintance. His is a respectable address; you may find yourself bored.”

  The Neapolitan swallowed a wad of insulted provender. When he spoke, it was in the tones of a wearied upper-class Exfall student, complete with precisely paced crispness on the long vowels. “If you keep talking, sir, I shan’t be bored at all. Disgusted, perhaps, but not bored.” No trace of Italy marred the words – the mimicry was near perfect. He grimaced, his tongue showing flecks of chewed sausage and crumbs of fried egg as he stuck it out as far as possible.

  At that moment the door opened, and Miss Bannon appeared. There were faint smudges under her dark eyes, and she cocked her head as Clare rose hastily.

  “Good morning. I see you two are becoming acquainted.” Today it was dark blue wool, a travelling dress. The jewellery was plain, too – another cameo at her throat, four plain silver bands on her left hand and a sapphire on her right ring finger, her earrings long jet drops that would have been vulgar had she been wearing mourning. A brooch of twisted fluid silver alive with golden charter-charms completed the ensemble, and her hatpins dangled short strings of twinkling blue beads. The hat itself, small, blue, and exquisitely expensive, sat at a jaunty angle on her dark curls. It was not a bonnet, and he was obliquely gladdened to see so. Aesthetically, this was far more pleasing.

  “I am gratified to see you well, Miss Bannon. Good morning.”

  The Neapolitan merely made a chuffing sound and buried his snout in more food.

  “You seem to have disturbed Signor Valentinelli. Ludovico, do please come and sit down.” She moved across the room, betraying no stiffness or injury, but she winced slightly as she sank into a Delft-cushioned chair opposite Clare, who lowered himself back down and eyed the teapot.

  Mikal appeared, tidy dark hair and a fresh high-collared coat of the same dark green velvet, his glove-boots soundless as he nodded at Clare and began filling a plate.

  Valentinelli glowered at the sorceress, swallowing another mass. “When you take the blood oath off, strega, I kill him.” The Italian was back, singing under the surface of his words. Strengthening morning light fell pearly and pale across his scars, picking out the fresh grease stains on his waistcoat.

  Miss Bannon examined him for a long moment, her hands motionless on the carved chair arms. “That would distress me,” she remarked, mildly enough. The charter symbols cascading over the glass panels in the ceiling shivered, wheeling apart and coming together in new patterns. A brief rattle of rain touched them, steaming off immediately, leaving streaks of dust.

  “Maybe I let him live. For you.” The Neapolitan let out a resounding belch.

  “Your magnanimousness fills me with gratitude.” Miss Bannon accepted a plate of fruit and toast from Mikal. There was a small, very fresh and livid bruise on the side of her neck, low near the delicate arch of her collarbone, and Clare’s eyebrows almost raised. It was extraordinarily uncomfortable to see such a thing.

  Well. She is sorceress, and may do as she pleases, but still.

  The Shield was the same, impenetrable. But his fingers brushed her shoulder as he turned away from serving her breakfast, and his yellow eyes were a trifle sleepy-lidded. Clare’s estimation of their relationship twisted sideways a few crucial degrees. His organ of Remembrance, having had time to search through dusty vaults and cellars, served up something quite interesting.

  The scandal surrounding Miles Crawford, Duke of Embraith and Sorcerer Prime, had been only glancingly mentioned by a former employer. Clare had simply stored the details and moved on, uninterested but unable to let any information leave his grasp unmarked. The Duke had been caught embezzling from the Crown, or some such; there were whispers of some bad form, which could mean anything from wiping his nose incorrectly at his club to the pleasures of Sodom. There had been no breath of sorcery surrounding his demise, which Clare had found a trifle odd at the time, but it did not warrant his attention. Sorcery was not a matter he found of great interest, and he had been … busy.

  That had been the last time he crossed wits with Dr Vance, and the memory was pleasing and bitter at once. The pleasure of such an opponent and the bitterness of being outfoxed that once warred with each other most improperly.

  Miss Bannon tsked at Valentinelli. “Must you behave in this manner? Mr Clare, I trust you slept well.”

  “As well as can be expected. There is a great deal to do today.”

  A small nod, very graceful. “Certainly. Mikal?”

  The Shield poured his sorceress a cup of tea. As soon as he had delivered it, he produced a sheaf of papers. He handed them silently to Clare, gave the Neapolitan a single scorching look, and turned away to fill his own plate. His breakfast was just as hearty as Valentinelli’s, but he managed it with infinitely more grace. For one thing, he sat to Miss Bannon’s left side and used the silver.

  “My, what is this?” The notations were interesting; Clare scanned three pages and grew increasingly still, the breakfast room receding as he concentrated. All thoughts of Vance and old scandal fled. “Dear God.”

  “Indeed. That should aid your investigations – and I do not need to remark on the trust implied by even the simple admission of my possession of such papers.”

  “Working notes – these are Smythe’s, I take it?”

  Another nod, as she sipped tea with exquisite care. “I could not find Throckmorton’s. There was very little left of his residence. There are also a few pages of Masters’s notes on the bottom – they may be of some use as well.”

  “Undoubtedly. Thank you, Miss Bannon. This will aid my investigations immensely.”

  “There is one more thing.” Her left-hand fingers flicked, the silver rings glinting dully, and a small crystalline pendant on a fine metal chain swung. It glowed even in the weak sunlight, a confection of silver wire and some colourless solid substance he could not immediately identify. “You shall wear this. If you are in dire need, I will be alerted, and I will offer what assistance I can at a distance, and furthermore make every effort to reach you. There is likely to be a great deal of annoyance involved in your investigations.”

  “I say. Is that an actual Bocannon’s Nut?” Clare accepted the pendant, and Miss Bannon nodded before buttering her toast.

  “With a few improvements, yes. They are time-consuming to create, and they can be broken, so do be careful.”

  Valentinelli pulled the last chair away from the small round table, dragging it along the carpet. He dropped into it, crushing the cushion, and banged his p
late down on Miss Bannon’s right. “Why you give him that, eh? I tell you I take care of him.”

  “Nevertheless.” Miss Bannon’s childlike face was unwontedly grave instead of simply set. “You may have occasion to thank me for it before this affair is finished. Do you recall the second time I made use of your services?”

  The Neapolitan actually turned cheese-pale, his pockmarked cheeks singularly unattractive as the blood drained away. “Ci. Incubo, e la giovana signorina. E il sangue. I remember.”

  “This is likely to be much worse.” Miss Bannon applied herself to her toast and fruit, delicately conveying an apricot slice to her decided little mouth. “You may now leave the house at any time, Mr Clare, and return as you please. There is a brougham engaged and waiting at the front gate; you have the use of it all day.” A final nod, the curls massed over her ears bouncing. “I suggest you do not loiter.”

  The driver was a broad-faced, pleasant man much exercised by the prospect of a full day’s beneficent hire, and his maroon brougham was clean and well ordered. The clockhorses were freshly oiled and springy; the whip cracked smartly, and Valentinelli was suddenly businesslike. The sneering uncouth mask fell away, and what rose to replace it was a calm, unblinking, almost feline stillness.

  The Neapolitan proved somewhat less terrible as a travelling companion. Clare had exited Miss Bannon’s house with a shambling carter. Now he sat beside a dangerous man. He held his tongue, his attention divided between Valentinelli’s immobility and the fog-choked, yellow-glowing street outside the window.

  Sigmund Baerbarth’s lodging in Clarney Greens was up two flights of stairs, the rooms spacious and well appointed but appallingly old-fashioned. The Bavarian kept them, antiquated as they were, because his workshop was situated directly behind the Queen Anne building holding his lodgings, in a long blue structure that had once been some manner of factory.

  There was no chalked circle on the low wooden door inside the draughty building, so Clare tapped twice and entered. Valentinelli muttered a curse, shoving past him to peer at the tangled interior. A horrific noise was coming from the depths of the building, but that was normal enough. The Neapolitan finally nodded, curling a lip at Clare in lieu of simply saying it was safe to enter.

  Shafts of sunlight pierced the dusty cavern, hulks of gutted machinery rising on either side. Metal gleamed, cogwheels as tall as Clare’s leg or watchmaker-tiny, bits of oiled leather and horsehair, struts and spars, carapaces and wheels in unholy profusion.

  “Sig!” Clare called. “I say, Sigmund! Put the kettle on, you’ve visitors!”

  A clanking rumble was the only reply. A mass of metal jerked, shuddering, and Clare watched as it heaved three times, oily steam sputtering from overworked valves. The shape suddenly made sense as he saw insectile legs with high, black-oiled joints. The body, slung below and between them, twitched and shivered. Atop the metal beast’s back, a short pudgy figure held on with grim determination, his arm rising and a monstrous black spanner rising with it. The man brought his arm down decidedly, a massive clanging resounded, and the pile of metal slumped, wheezing clouds of vile-smelling green steam.

  The rotund man kept beating at the iron back, making a terrific noise, until it finally splayed on the sawdust-scattered floor, bleeding dark grease and panting scorched steam. A rich basso profundo voice rose, rumbling through quite a few scatological terms Clare might have blushed at had they been in Queen’s English.

  “Sig!” he called again. “Good show, I say! You’ve almost got that working.”

  “Eh?” Sigmund’s seamed bald head jerked up, the leather-and-brass goggles clamped to his face making his eyes into swimming poached eggs. “Archibald? Guten Tag, man! Wer ist das?”

  “Name’s Valentinelli, he’s my insurance. Bit of trouble, old man. I need your advice.”

  “Very good!” The Bavarian dropped the spanner with a clatter and hopped down, sawdust puffing from his boots. He wore a machinist’s apron, and when he freed himself from the goggles one could see watery brown eyes under bushy iron-grey brows. His moustache was magnificent, if a trifle singed, and his side whiskers were vast – to make up for his egg-bald head, since he was a vain man. “Come, I make you tea. And there is wurst! Cheese and your foul kippers, too. Come, come.” He pumped Clare’s hand with abandon, grabbed Valentinelli’s and did the same. “You are small and thin. Italian, ja? No matter, you eat too. Baerbarth is not proud.”

  The Neapolitan gave a wolfish grin. “Neither is Valentinelli, signor. Ciao.”

  “Ja, ja, come. This way, this way—”

  He led them between stacks of machinery, into a section of smaller metal carcasses. The light came from gaslamps and high dusty windows, weakly struggling to penetrate the corners, glinting off sharp edges.

  Four easy chairs crouched in front of a coal grate; a massive pigeonhole desk loaded with papers and smaller cogwheels and gears hunched to one side. This portion of the old factory was better lit and warmer, and a hanging rack constructed of scrap metal above the desk held loops of wurst links and a gigantic wheel of cheese in a net bag. The kettle near the grate was hot, and in short order a second breakfast was prepared. Valentinelli and Baerbarth set to with a will, while Clare contented himself with terrible, harsh tea cut with almost turned milk.

  “Now.” Sigmund’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Tell me, Herr Clare. What is problem?”

  There was nothing for it but to leap in, however indirectly. “I need Prussian capacitors.”

  Sigmund shrugged, chewing meditatively at a wurst as thick as his burly wrist. He was only a genius; his faculties were not quite mentath quality and he had failed the notoriously difficult Wurzburg Examinations twice. For all that, he was generous, loyal, and honest to a fault. If not for the efforts of his landlady McAllister and his sometimes assistant Chompton – a thin, half-feral lad with a near-miraculous affinity for clockhorse gears – he would probably have been cheated out of every farthing long ago.

  “Capacitors.” The great gleaming head nodded. “Prussians? Gone. Gentlemen bought mine month ago; none to be had, love or money. I could find you Davinports or some French ones, feh!” His face balled itself up to show his feelings on such a matter. To Sig, German mechanisterum was the apotheosis of the art, English was serviceable, and the French altogether too delicate and fancy to be considered proper mechanisterum at all. “But no, mein Herr, no Prussians. Not even my Becker haf them.”

  Ah, so the trail is not as cold as I feared. “Now that is very odd.” Clare’s nose sank into his teacup. His habitual chair was a wide broken-in leather monstrosity, smelling slightly sharpish with rot like everything in the factory. Valentinelli’s head made a quick catlike movement, enquiring, as he perched on a wooden stool next to the grate – Chompton’s usual spot. “And where is young Chompers today?”

  “He is picking river-shore, like good boy. Back before Tide, I tell him, but he grunt and wave his arms. Young men!” He rolled his weak, blinking eyes. “I find you Prussians, but it take time.”

  “That’s quite all right. I have another question, my friend—”

  “Of course. You would like wurst, eh? Or cheese? Bread is good, I just scrape mould off. More tea?”

  “No thank you. Sig, old man, how would one trace a certain shipment of Prussian capacitors? Without drawing attention to oneself?”

  The Bavarian grinned widely. One of his front teeth was discoloured; he had a positive horror of toothcharmers. “Aha! Now is revealed!”

  No, but I would like you to think so. “Indeed. And?”

  Sigmund sank back in his faded blue armchair, blowsy pink cabbage roses blooming horrifically over its surface like spreading fungus. It squeaked as he settled his squat frame more firmly. “Difficult. Very difficult.”

  “But not impossible.” The tea was almost undrinkable, but at least it was strong. One could always do with a spot more to help a situation settle the proper way. “And if anyone can, Sig …”

  “Archie. Is difficu
lt, this thing you ask, ja?” Suddenly very grave, Sigmund took another mouthful of wurst and chewed. Like a cow, he thought best while ruminating.

  A thin thread of unease touched Clare’s nape. He glanced at the stool by the grate.

  Valentinelli had vanished.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  They Are Not Exercised Enough

  The dark green curricle was fast and light, especially with Mikal at the reins and the matched clockwork bays high-stepping. A trifle flashy, not quite the thing for a lady, but one had only to look at the witchballs spitting in their gilded cages, swinging from the swan-neck leaf springs, and the dash-charm sparking with crimson as it deflected mud and flung stones from the passenger, to know it was not just a lady but one of sorcery’s odd children being driven by a nonchalant Shield through a press of Londinium traffic rather startlingly resembling the seventh circle of Hell.

  The curricle took a hard left, cutting through a sea of humanity. Shouts and curses rose. Emma paid no attention. Her eyes shut, she leaned back in her seat, fine invisible threads flashing one by one through her receptive consciousness as she held herself still. One gloved hand held tight to the loop of leather on her left, her fingers almost numb. Mikal shifted his weight, the clockhorses so matched their drumming hoofbeats sounded like one creature, Londinium’s chill fogday breath teasing at her veil. Even the strongest air-clearing charm could not make the great dozing beast of the city smell better than foul on days like this, when one of Dr Bell’s jars had descended over everything from St Paul’s Road to the Oval, and beyond. The night’s fog crouched well past daybreak, peering in windows, fingering pedestrians, cloaking whole streets with blank billowing hangings of thick yellow vapour. Some, especially the ditch-charmers and hedgerow conjurors, swore Londinium altered itself behind the fog. Outside the Black Wark, the Well, Whitchapel’s Sink or Mile End – or some other odd pockets – few believed them.