And there was the question of the two canisters, disappeared. Emma sighed, working her fingers under her hair, leaning against her front door.
Mikal echoed her sigh, his shoulders dropping. He finally broke the silence between them that had held all the way from Whitchapel. “Another sorcerer?”
“A Prime, no less.” Wearily, Emma scrubbed at the skin over her skull. It would disarrange her hair most dreadfully, but she was past caring. Is Clare here? He should be, if I have to stir one step to seek him out tonight I shall be quite cross. Even the simple act of concentrating enough to discern who was within her walls seemed far too great an expenditure of precious energy.
The house was awake, in any event, and Mr Finch came stiffly down the stairs, his dusty black making the long thin lines of his gaunt body even slimmer. His indenture collar brightened visibly as he laid eyes on her. “Madam.” He showed no surprise at her dishevelment – of course, he was phlegmatic in the extreme, as well as accustomed to the various states of disarray she suffered in Britannia’s service. “Mr Clare left, with his… guest. Shall I have Madame Noyon…?” His eyebrows rose, and his face was truly like a death’s head.
Starvation left marks on a man, and Finch was unwilling to let them fade. Or he did not possess the capability of letting such things fade. And, it must be said, neither did his mistress, no matter how successfully she hid the traces of her own private dæmons, real or imagined.
Clare had a guest? For now, though, she was called upon to tend to the responsibilities of a Prime toward her servants. “Yes, please do. I rather require a hot bath. And rouse the kitchen; Mikal requires sustenance.” Who can he have brought home? Not Sigmund, thank God, he’s safe enough. “I shall not stir forth one step tonight, Finch, unless there is a dire emergency. And even then, I shall reconsider.” So Clare had better not be in any danger. I may even be vexed with the man, and Ludo to boot.
“Very well, mum. Sir.” A half-bow to her, taking in Mikal at the very end, and he vanished down the hall to the kitchens. Waking the house at this hour was all manner of bother and annoyance, but what were such things to servants? Especially indentureds as well-paid and well-treated as her own.
“Is she at odds with you, then? The Queen?”
How was it possible for Mikal to sound so indifferent? “I believe her own cleverness stung her fingers, Shield. But she will blame me.” Or does she know exactly what Morris’s madness has done? Perhaps I should have kept my temper in order to discern. A sigh came from a deep well inside her. “Go. I shall be well enough.”
He nodded. In the foyer’s gloom, gaslamps turned down for the evening and her unwilling to expend more sorcerous force to brighten the air, his yellow irises held a fire all their own. “Emma.”
Not now, please. “What?” She sounded ungracious, she realised, as well as peevish.
Well, at least I require no artifice to cover such things. Not with him.
“I am only half… what you suspect. The other half is different. The whole is—”
“Mikal—” Curse you, I do not wish to know!
He dared to interrupt her. “The whole, Prima, is at your command. Of course.” He turned on his heel and strode away, disappearing in Finch’s wake as a bell jangled in the depths of the servants’ quarters and the susurrus of cloth began. At any moment, Severine and the maids would appear to usher Emma into a hot bath, there would be light refreshment, and she could fall into her bed with a sigh of well-earned relief.
Still, it bothered her. Had Victrix any idea what this “weapon” could do? There was also the little matter of the canisters of poison Morris had taken with him; they must be found and dealt with, and where on earth was Clare?
“Madame!” There was Severine, in a lace cap, shadows under her coal-black eyes and her plump hands wringing at each other. A dark strand of hair freighted with grey slipped from under the housekeeper’s cap, and she negotiated the stairs with most unseemly haste. Behind her, Catherine and Isobel hurried, Isobel yawning and Catherine’s curls heavily disarranged. All three wore the powdery-silver metal of indenture collars, lovingly burnished and softly glowing. “You are returned, bien! And so tired. Come, come, we shall take good care of you.”
“Good evening.” Her shoulders dropped for the first time, tension easing. “I hope you will, Severine, for I sorely need it. A bath, and perhaps some chocolat.”
And I may be able to read half a page of a dreadfully sensational novel before I fall into sleep.
It was by far the most pleasant thought she had experienced in a few days. Later, of course, she would curse herself for not sallying forth to find a certain mentath. But for that night, Emma Bannon laid down the burden of service for a few hours… and was content.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A Congress of War
The following morning began rather inauspiciously. “What in God’s name is happening here?” Miss Bannon all-but-barked, momentarily forgetting her usual well-bred tones.
Clare blinked. He had laid his head down on the desk for a bare moment, merely to rest. The stiffness in his back and neck, as well as the uncomfortable crust about his eyes, told him he had instead slept, and quite deeply too.
Valentinelli, his pallet spread near the workroom door, sheepishly slipped a knife back into his sleeve and yawned hugely, stretching. One of his hands almost touched the thunderstruck sorceress’s skirts, and she twitched the black silk of mourning away from his fingers reflexively. She was attired as smartly as ever, despite the mourning, and her jewellery – a torc of bronze ringing her slim throat, rings of mellow gold on each finger, her earrings long daggers of jet – rang and crackled with golden charter symbols. Her small arms were full of broadsheets, the ink on them still fresh enough for its odour to penetrate the scorch-throat reek of live experimentation.
Vance had, by all appearances, gone to sleep propped in a corner, very much as an Ægyptian mummy himself. He twitched into wakefulness and caught himself, his gaze distressingly sharp as soon as he rubbed at his eyes. All three men were covered with dust and dirt, the effluvium of a grave below Londinium’s surface, and perhaps smelled just as bad as the experiments.
Clare’s brow was unbecomingly damp. He coughed, and caught his pen, which threatened to skitter from the desk’s cluttered surface. The nib was crusted with dried ink. “I say,” he managed, “good heavens. I must have slept.”
“There is news.” Miss Bannon swept past Valentinelli, and the door moved a fraction behind her, but did not close. “Morris is dead, but his end has been achieved. The broadsheets are full of a mysterious illness spreading with most unseemly haste in the lower quarters of town. What happened?”
“Morris? Dead?” Vance took two steps away from the wall and halted, his eyes narrowing. “How? When?”
The look Miss Bannon cast at the criminal mentath was chilling in its severity. “Good morning, sir. I do not believe I have had the pleasure.” Her tone announced it was a dubious pleasure at best, and her entire demeanour was of the frostiest vintage. “Archibald?”
“Ah. Yes.” He cleared his throat again. This should be quite interesting. “Miss Bannon, may I present Dr Francis Vance? Dr Vance, our hostess, Miss Bannon.”
Clare had very little time to savour Miss Bannon’s momentary silence. Vance bowed and his right hand moved as if to lift his hat, forgetting that he wore none. “I am extremely pleased to be introduced, Miss Bannon. Mr Clare thinks very highly of you, and your hospitality is simply incredible.”
Her response – studying him for a few long moments, from top to toe – lacked nothing in insouciance. “He thinks rather highly of you as well, sir.” Her tone managed to express that she did not share such estimation or optimism, and she returned her attention to Clare’s quarter with a dark look that promised trouble later. “So. Well. Mr Clare?”
He almost winced. Oh, dear. “Suffice to say we are brothers-in-arms in this affair, dear Bannon. The situation is… complex. In the lower quarters, you say? S
pread of an illness?”
“They are calling it a rosy miasma, and it is spreading quickly enough to make the broadsheets promise another edition at midday. Clare, is it too much to ask for you to grant me an explanation?”
“Not at all. But… breakfast. We worked very late last night. I found the original source of Morris’s plague. Tell me, what did he die of?”
She all but stamped her tiny foot. “The same poison that killed my Shield. Or is it an illness? This Pathologic Theory of yours? Really, sir, I do require some information at this juncture!”
It rather irked Miss Bannon to be the less-informed of their pairing, Clare thought. Surely it was not quite logical to feel so secretly pleased at the notion. “Breakfast, Miss Bannon. I do not have much of an appetite, but it shall serve as a congress of war. The situation is worse than you may have ever dreamed.”
“Lovely.” She addressed the ceiling in injured tones. “And now he calls my imagination into question. Ludo, if you do not put that knife away again, I shall be outright vexed with you. Very well, gentlemen. I expect to see you in the breakfast room soon. Already I have had a request from the Crown for some manner of further explanation, one I cannot give until you share your tidings.” Another venomous glance darted at Dr Vance – who looked rather amused again, dash it all – and she spun smartly, twitched her skirt away from Valentinelli again while the assassin stared at her and whistled a long low note, and her retreating footsteps were crackling little snaps of frustrated authority.
Silence fell among the men as they listened to her negotiate the stairs.
“Well.” Vance rubbed his fingers together. “A most winning creature, old man, and you have been keeping her all to yourself.”
“She singe your fingers, bastarde.” Valentinelli gained his feet in a catlike lunge. He had, as usual, slept in his boots. “And Ludovico cut them off.”
“You’re quite a suitor, sir.” Vance’s laugh carried a note of calculated disdain, and Clare rubbed at his damp forehead, where a distressing headache was threatening. “Does your wife know?”
Damn the man. Clare gained his feet, shoving the uncomfortable wooden chair back, and managed – just barely – to arrive in Valentinelli’s way as the Neapolitan leapt for the criminal mentath, whose laugh could have been carved from ice. “None of that!” Clare cried, locking Ludovico’s wrist and twisting, the knife clattering on the stone floor and his weight driving the assassin back a few critical steps. “None of that, Ludo, the man is simply baiting you! Pray do not make it easier!”
“Turn him loose, Clare.” Vance stood at ease, but with his hands held oddly. Some manner of fighting skill, though Clare did not have enough time to do more than glimpse it, for holding Ludovico back took all his strength and a goodly portion of guile.
Do not force me to harm you. But he could not say it.
Ludovico subsided, though he was sweating, and his close-set eyes were hot with rage. He spoke very low in his Calabrian dialect, and there was no mistaking the import of the words – or their meaning. Not even a threat, merely a promise of retribution.
“Enough.” Clare cleared his throat again. He rather wished for a spot of tea to ease the scratching. It would not ease the situation to spit, though. “I shall have Miss Bannon separate you, if you cannot behave as gentlemen. We have much more pressing problems, and after this affair is concluded you may duel each other with pistols in Treyvasan Gardens for all I care. But for now, cease this foolishness.”
He held no great expectation of soothing either of them, but apparently his invocation of satisfaction at a later point was enough. Vance stepped back, almost mincingly, and Valentinelli shook himself free of Clare’s grip, stamping for the door. His footsteps were nowhere near as light or dainty as Miss Bannon’s, and they vanished halfway up, as if he had recalled his ability to move silently.
Clare let out a sigh. His brow was really quite moist, and sweat had gathered under his arms as well. Exertion was not a marvellous idea so soon in the morning, and his bones reminded him that he was decidedly not of tender enough vintage to sleep in a chair. “That was ill-done,” he remarked, mildly enough. “His possible marriage is rather a sensitive subject.”
“They always are. And it is not possible; he had a wife once. You should have deduced as much.” Vance, supremely unconcerned, set about adjusting his jacket. “Breakfast, you say? And I hate to be gauche, but a watercloset would do me a world of good, old chap.”
Clare throttled the annoyance rising in his chest and nodded, sharply. “Do come this way, sir. I believe some shift may be made for you.” His pause was not entirely for effect, for a novel idea had occurred to him. “And do be careful. This is a sorceress’s house, and Miss Bannon’s temper is… uncertain, with strangers.”
Perhaps it would make the damnable man behave. Though Clare, wiping at his forehead and cheeks with a slight grimace, was not hopeful.
Clare’s appetite had deserted him entirely, for once. He had suitably freshened himself and changed his clothes, but his back still cramped, reminding him of its unhappiness. His joints had joined the chorus, and the broadsheets, spread over a small table brought into the too-bright breakfast room, did not help.
Morris had done his work well. “The remaining two canisters?”
“Disappeared. Either Copperpot was not truthful, or Mr Morris was not quite honest with the particulars.” Miss Bannon’s colour was fine this morning, but her small white teeth worrying at her lower lip betrayed her anxiety. “I rather think the latter, if only because of Ludo’s fine work.”
Clare’s stomach twisted afresh. He sipped his tea, hoping to calm his digestion, and turned a page. The ink stained his fingers, but he could not find the heart to be even fractionally annoyed. “The ones left in Londinium are now useless. The genie, as Dr Vance remarked, has left the lamp.”
“Ah, yes. Dr Vance.” There was a line between Miss Bannon’s dark eyebrows. “This is a tale I am most interested in hearing, Clare. He is in my house.”
“I don’t suppose there is a method for keeping him here?” Clare blinked rapidly, several times. The words on the pages refused to cohere for a moment.
“I have already attended to that, Archibald.” Miss Bannon glanced across the empty breakfast room as Mikal appeared, his tidy dark hair dewed with fine droplets of Londinium moisture. “Any news?”
“No further dispatches from the Palace.” Mikal’s lean face was not grave, but it was close. “The borders of the house are secure, Prima.”
“Very good. Ludo?”
“At his toilette.” Grim amusement touched Mikal’s mouth, turning the straight line into a slight curve at its corners. “So is our other guest. When shall I kill him?”
“No need for that!” Clare interjected, hastily. “He has a steady pair of hands, and is familiar with the Theory. He will be most useful, and remanding him to Her Majesty’s justice at the end of this affair—”
“—will be quite enough to salve your tender conscience?” Miss Bannon’s expression was, for once, unreadable. She nodded, and Mikal drifted across the room to fetch her a breakfast plate. The sorceress, settled in her usual chair at the table she shared with Clare when he partook of her hospitality, shook the ringlets over her ears precisely once. “I am gladdened to hear it. But my question remains: what the devil is he doing here?”
“I am not quite certain.” Clare forced his faculties to the task at hand, scanning columns of fine print. “Bermondsey, yes. Whitchapel, yes. Lambeth.” He noted Miss Bannon’s slight movement, slipped the notation into the mental bureau holding her particulars, and continued. “Cripplegate, yes. St Giles. The Strand – why there, I wonder? Ah yes, the Saint-Simonroithe, Morris would of course know the history. And the docks; dear God, it will spread like wildfire. It is spreading like wildfire.” He exhaled, heavily. “How did he die, Miss Bannon?”
“Of his own creation, sir. I brought him to the Queen’s presence; he expired very shortly afterwards.” She accepted
the plate – two bangers, fruit, and one of Cook’s lovely scones – with a nod, and Mikal set to work loading another. “It was unpleasant. Convulsions, all manner of blood.”
Clare shut his eyes. For a moment, the idea of swooning appeared marvellously comforting. He was so bloody tired. “He died in the Queen’s presence? You took him before Britannia?”
“Of course.” Puzzled, she stared at him through the fragrant steam wafting up from her scone. “You’ve gone quite pale.”
“Perhaps Britannia will protect her vessel.” Clare’s lips were suspiciously numb. He gathered himself afresh. “This illness is incredibly communicable, Miss Bannon. The danger is quite real.”
“Communicative?” It was her turn to pale as she dropped her dark gaze to her plate. “Infectious? Very?”
“Yes. Very. Who else was in the Presence?”
“A few personages,” she admitted. “None I care overmuch for.” Quite decidedly, she turned her attention to her breakfast and began calmly to consume it. “I am still unclear on the exact dimensions of this threat, Archibald. You are to have breakfast and explain. I cannot fend off the Crown’s requests for information for very long.”
It was, he reflected, quite kind of Miss Bannon that she did not consider aloud dragging him and Vance into Britannia’s presence to give an account of the entire mess. “We have found the original source of the illness. Have you studied History, Miss Bannon?”
“My education, sir, was the best the Collegia could provide.” But there was no sharpness to her tone. “And I have taken steps to continue it. What part of History’s grand sweep do you refer to?”
“Sixteen sixty-six. The Great Plague.” And during it, Londinium burned.
The silence that fell was extraordinary. Miss Bannon laid her implements down and picked up her teacup, her smallest finger held just so. Mikal settled himself in his usual chair as well, his plate heaped so high it was a wonder the china did not groan in pain.
The Red Plague Affair: Bannon & Clare: Book Two Page 16