The Iron Wyrm Affair: Bannon and Clare: Book 1

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “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. There 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.

  Much as Time seeks to bring down every building, and Vice seeks to bring down every Virtue, the treacherous Assumption ever seeks to intrude a detail’s importance wrongly into Deduction. A proper Assumption may save a great deal of time and trouble, but an improper Assumption is a foul stinking beast, ever ready to founder the ship of Logic upon the rocks of Inaccuracy.

  Fortunately, the weapons of Reason and Observation do much to overthrow the false faces of Assumption. The decision to carefully and thoroughly question each Assumption as if it is a criminal, or a fool who does not differentiate Fact from Fancy, will serve each person seeking to strengthen his habit of Deduction faithfully. As the organs of Reason and Observation strengthen, the art of quickly finding the correct details becomes natural.

  We shall start with a series of Exercizes to strengthen the faculty of Observation any Reader assaying this humble work possesses. These Ex
ercizes are to be done daily, upon waking and retiring, and at diverse points through the Reader’s daily work as opportunity permits …

  — From the Preface, The Art and Science of Deduction, Mr Archibald Clare

  extras

  about the author

  Lilith Saintcrow was born in New Mexico, bounced around the world as an Air Force brat, and fell in love with writing when she was ten years old. She currently lives in Vancouver, Washington. Visit her website at www.lilithsaintcrow.com

  Find out more about Lilith Saintcrow and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net

  interview

  The Iron Wyrm Affair is your first experience with writing steampunk. How was it compared to writing your previous books?

  To be honest, I didn’t think it was “steampunk” when I was writing it. I tend to view steampunk more as an aesthetic than as a genre. For me it was a variety of alt-history mixed with urban fantasy. It was incredibly fun to write, and just happened naturally once the initial image – of Archibald Clare in his study, dishevelled and bored almost to literal death – came to me. From there it was a race to uncover things as the characters did. I literally did not know what would happen next until Bannon’s Ride, near the end of the book.

  Where did the inspiration for The Iron Wyrm Affair come from? Were the Sherlock Holmes books a big influence?

  I loved Sherlock Holmes and Encyclopedia Brown as a child. The idea that the power of observation could be used like that … it was like a superpower ordinary people could polish. Also, when the recent Sherlock Holmes movie hit theatres, there were a couple scenes that were just such fun, so tongue-in-cheek, that they really fired my imagination.

  There is a wonderful spark between Emma Bannon and Mikal. An unusual choice since Clare is the other point of view. Why choose Mikal over Clare for the love interest?

  My goodness, Clare would not be attracted to Emma. Plus, he’s a mentath. Logic machines are hard to live with, as are Prime sorceresses. Initially, Mikal wasn’t even a love interest, and I hesitate to say he’s one now. He was simply an almost-socially-acceptable way for Miss Bannon to relieve, shall we say, a little pressure. He and Miss Bannon have a relationship more founded on mutual respect and a variety of trust than anything else.

  Clare, on the other hand, wouldn’t know what to do if he did have tender feelings for anyone, let alone Miss Bannon.

  When did you come up with the idea of jewels and jewellery as a source of power?

  Jewellery has always been a source of power and fascination. It’s very human to adorn oneself, and have that adornment carry power and significance. I realised about halfway through the book that Miss Bannon’s jewellery was a character in its own right, and during revision had to go back and write out every set she wore. It was almost like dress-up.

  Emma Bannon is such a fascinating character. So tough … and yet so proper at times. Where did you get the inspiration for her?

  Her influences are manifold, from Kage Baker’s Edward Bell-Fairfax (probably the biggest one) to Rudyard Kipling’s Kim, as well as Jane Eyre and a huge, choking load of Charles Dickens. I wondered what a woman, especially a woman who had escaped the confines of a lower class, would do with the phenomenal power of a Prime. There was also a very interesting tension in her character – Miss Bannon is, after all, expected to act in certain ways because she is a woman, and sometimes she doesn’t. There’s always a price to pay for that. It would be anachronistic to have it otherwise. The arrogance and willpower of a Sorcerer Prime and the powerful social strictures of gentility and gender roles make for interesting complexity.

  What is next for Bannon and Clare?

  Right now I’m hard at work on The Red Plague Affair, which starts with a cardiac arrest and goes on to involve plague pits, treachery and Dr Vance, Archibald Clare’s nemesis and most treasured opponent. It should be a lot of fun.

  if you enjoyed

  THE IRON WYRM AFFAIR

  look out for

  GOD SAVE THE QUEEN

  by

  Kate Locke

  Chapter 1

  Pomegranates Full and Fine

  London, 175 years into the reign of Her Ensanguined Majesty Queen Victoria

  I hate goblins.

  And when I say hate, I mean they bloody terrify me. I’d rather French-kiss a human with a mouth full of silver fillings than pick my way through the debris and rubble that used to be Down Street station, searching for the entrance to the plague den.

  It was eerily quiet underground. The bustle of cobbleside was little more than a distant clatter down here. The roll of carriages, the clack of horse hooves from the Mayfair traffic was faint, occasionally completely drowned out by the roar of ancient locomotives raging through the subterranean tunnels carrying a barrage of smells in their bone-jangling wake.

  Dirt. Decay. Stone. Blood.

  I picked my way around a discarded shopping trolley, and tried to avoid looking at a large paw print in the dust. One of them had been here recently – the drops of blood surrounding the print were still fresh enough for me to smell the coppery tang. Human.

  As I descended the stairs to platform level, my palms skimmed over the remaining chipped and pitted cream and maroon tiles that covered the walls – a grim reminder that this … mausoleum was once a thriving hub of urban transportation.

  The light of my torch caught an entire set of paw prints, and the jagged pits at the end where claws had dug into the steps. I swallowed, throat dry.

  Of course they ventured up this far – the busted sconces were proof. They couldn’t always sit around and wait for some stupid human to come to them – they had to hunt. Still, the sight of those prints and the lingering scent of human blood made my chest tight.

  I wasn’t a coward. My being here was proof of that – and perhaps proof positive of my lack of intelligence. Everyone – aristocrat, half-blood and human – was afraid of goblins. You’d be mental not to be. They were fast and ferocious and didn’t seem to have any sense of morality holding them back. If aristos were fully plagued, then goblins were overly so, though such a thing wasn’t really possible. Technically they were aristocrats, but no one would ever dare call them such. To do so was as much an insult to them as to aristos. They were mutations, and terribly proud of it.

  Images flashed in my head, memories that played out like disjointed snippets from a film: fur, gnashing fangs, yellow eyes – and blood. That was all I remembered of the day I was attacked by a gob right here in this very station. My history class from the Academy had come here on a field trip. The gobs stayed away from us because of the treaty. At least they were supposed to stay away, but one didn’t listen, and it picked me.

  If it hadn’t been for Church, I would have died that day. That was when I realised goblins weren’t stories told to children to make us behave. It was also the day I realised that if I didn’t do everything in my ability to prove them wrong, people would think I was defective somehow – weak – because a goblin tried to take me.

  I hadn’t set foot in Down Street station since then. If it weren’t for my sister Dede’s disappearance I wouldn’t have gone down there at all. Avery and Val thought I was overreacting. Dede had taken off on us before, so it was hardly shocking that she wasn’t answering her rotary or that the message box on said gadget was full. But in the past she had called me to let me know she was safe. She always called me.

  I had exhausted every other avenue. It was as though Dede had fallen off the face of the earth. I was desperate, and there was only one option left – goblins. Gobs knew everything that happened in London, despite rarely venturing above ground. Somehow they had found a way to spy on the entire city, and no one seemed to know just what that was. I reckon anyone who had the bollocks to ask didn’t live long enough to share it with the rest of us.

  It was dark, not because the city didn’t run electric lines down here any more – they did – but because the lights had been smashed. Th
e beam from my small hand-held torch caught the grimy glitter of the remains of at least half a dozen bulbs on the ground amongst the refuse.

  The bones of a human hand lay surrounded by the shards, cupping the jagged edges in a dull, dry palm.

  I reached for the .50 British Bulldog normally holstered snugly against my ribs, but it wasn’t there. I’d left it at home. Walking into the plague den with a firearm was considered an act of aggression unless one was there on the official – which I wasn’t. Aggression was the last thing – next to fear – you wanted to show in front of one goblin, let alone an entire plague. It was like wearing a sign reading dinner around your neck.

  It didn’t matter that I had plagued blood as well. I was only a half-blood, the result of a vampire aristocrat – the term that had come to be synonymous with someone of noble descent who was also plagued – and a human courtesan doing the hot and sweaty. Science considered goblins the ultimate birth defect, but in reality they were the result of gene snobbery. The Prometheus protein in vamps – caused by centuries of Black Plague exposure – didn’t play well with the mutation that caused others to become weres. If the proteins from both species mixed the outcome was a goblin, though some had been born to parents with the same strain. Hell, there were even two documented cases of goblins being born to human parents both of whom carried dormant plagued genes, but that was very rare, as goblins sometimes tried to eat their way out of the womb. No human could survive that.

  In fact, no one had much of a chance of surviving a goblin attack. And that was why I had my lonsdaelite dagger tucked into a secret sheath inside my corset. Harder than diamond and easily concealed, it was my “go to” weapon of choice. It was sharp, light and didn’t set off machines designed to detect metal or catch the attention of beings with a keen enough sense of smell to sniff out things like blades and pistols.