“Intriguing.” The relief of not having to suspect him was only matched in its intensity by fresh alarm. How far is the Duchess involved? Or is it merely Conroy? Where he is, she isn’t far behind, and she would like nothing better than to embarrass the Queen into compliance again.
“No, he’s rather boring, but he’d be decorative.” Childe snorted.
“Not to my taste. What precisely did Devon say after you denied Her Majesty’s darling mother the use of your Principia?” A touch of sarcasm here, for she knew it would please him.
So it did. His face lit with an expression of dawning Schadenfreude. “It is intrigue, then! You are never boring, my dear. He gave me to understand the Duchess would be most piqued at my refusal; I replied that I didn’t care a fart in a windstorm – shocking I know, but he annoyed me; don’t laugh so – if she was piqued or if she sang an entire aria in the water closet. Then the little hedge-charmer had the sheer effrontery to ask if he could see the book! I informed him I am not a lending library and the Collegia library is open for Master Sorcerers just as for Primes, though not, of course, at the same time.” He almost wriggled with delight with the memory of the insult implied to Devon’s status. “Did I do right, darling?”
“Oh, absolutely.” Emma settled herself more firmly in her chair. “If I ask very nicely, Dorian dear, will you allow me to peruse the Principia?”
“My most enchanting Emma, you could set the damn thing on fire page by page in my bedroom while watching me disport with one of those boys you so highly disapprove of. You, at least, are never impolite or aesthetically lacking.” He pantomimed a yawn. “But first let’s have some tea. And really, darling, I was about to return Eli to the Collegia and pick out a more active Shield. Do you want him?”
Emma’s heart pounded in her ears. Another Shield would not be a bad idea at all, in light of this news. She could not risk returning to the Collegia and publicly taking more of them into service, and Eli would no doubt be glad not to return to the Shields’ dormitories in almost disgrace. “Yes.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Yes, I rather think I do.”
It was, she decided, probably a mercy she could not see Mikal’s face.
After a very satisfying cup of tea, Dorian left her in his library, one of the few rooms he had never redone since his father had left him a good address and sorcerous ability but precious little else. Whether the room was left alone because Childe saw no need to alter it, or because he spent very little time among the rare texts he collected so assiduously, was a mystery Emma felt no need to solve.
Two storeys high, the ceiling frescoed with Grecque gods cavorting among pale nymphs, the library was dark heavy wood, comfortable leather furniture that had belonged to Dorian’s father, a healthy fire in the grate, maroon drapes pulled against daylight. She breathed in the scent of paper, dust, old leather, smoky sorcery, and her shoulders eased still further. The other Prime was bursting with curiosity, and she had told him as much as she dared. The rumours he would start would be priceless in sowing confusion among her enemies.
At least Mikal waited until they were alone.
“Another Shield, my Prima?”
She turned away from the shelf, the Principia Draconis in her arms. It was a leather-bound monstrosity; this edition lacked Wilson’s gloss, but she didn’t think it would matter much. Wilson had simply cleaned up some of the archaisms. “I think it wise, if the Duchess of Kent and her hangman are involved. And I wondered where our conspirators received their money.”
“Can you trust a Shield from his service?”
“Childe is loyal.” He has a great deal to lose under the sodomy laws if he dares to be anything less. “And Eli is capable, from what I recall. Top of his year-class at the Collegia, rather as you were. Did you not recently seek to have me take on the responsibility of more Shields?”
He quieted, but the set of his chin was mulishly defiant. Emma sighed, hauling the book towards her usual table. The thing was as long as her own torso, and beastly heavy. Mikal let her take two steps before arriving to subtract the book from her arms. Surprised by its weight, he exhaled, shifted backwards and turned; she trailed behind, her skirts making a low, sweet sound.
The glow she had felt just before Tideturn, waking in his arms and feeling the rough texture of his skin against her back, was all but gone.
I am Prime, she reminded herself. It is his duty. And I shall not make the mistake of acting like a silly girl over this.
And yet. “Mikal—”
“Well enough. As long as he is capable.” The Principia thudded on to a small rosewood table, and she winced.
“That is a Great Text, Shield. Pray do not injure it.”
“Certainly. If you will take care not to injure yourself.”
“I am taking on an additional Shield, Mikal. One who will be glad of my service instead of Childe’s, perhaps, and one who may have learned restraint and obedience.” She tucked her veil aside, unnecessarily; it was still securely fastened. “Perhaps he can show you the value of such.”
“Perhaps.” He turned away. “Will he share your bed too, Prima?”
Is that it? For a moment, the silence was full of a resonant un-noise, as if the books had taken a collective breath after witnessing a sharp slap. Heat crawled up Emma’s throat, stained her cheeks. Had he just called her a whore, too? From Huston, she had expected it.
I am Prime. Your petty rules do not apply to me.
But it did not salve the sting. Why should she care what a Shield thought?
Because he is not merely a Shield, Emma. He is Mikal, and you are perhaps more grateful to him for saving your life and killing Crawford than you should be.
She composed herself, took a deep breath, and sank into the chair. Her gloved hand passed over the Principia’s cover, and the two locks holding the book closed clicked. Green with age, they flew apart as if they had never intended to stay clasped. Sorcerous force rose, Emma’s left hand flashing forward to curl around a slippery, not-quite-tangible armoured eel, as the book tested her will. It subsided quickly – after all, like every book, the Great Texts wanted to be read.
When she was certain the Principia knew who held the reins, she delicately lifted the heavy cover. Thick pages riffled.
“Prima.” Mikal sounded oddly breathless. “I am—”
About to apologise? That would imply I have taken insult, and from a Shield, no less. “I have no wish to hear you speak.” Her welling eyes fixed themselves on the Principia. Ink writhed, and the writing became clear. Serpentine illustrations flowed like water, bordering each page. She leaned closer, and breathed her query across the pages.
“Vortisssss.” The name trailed into a hiss, and the Principia’s pages riffled more quickly. A hot breeze lifted, touching her hair, fingering the entire library. The curtains rippled, paper on the gigantic desk near the fireplace stirred, the bronze-caged witchballs sizzled and turned bloody. Above the fireplace, a heavy-framed oil painting of Childe’s father glowered, and the dark coat the man was encased in was suddenly alive with golden traceries of charter charm.
The pages slowed, the Principia humming as it woke fully and sought within itself. Finally they stilled, and Emma leaned slightly back, blinking back hot saltwater. Her throat was full.
The flush of anger and pain turned to ice. A cold metallic finger traced her spine. She had to swallow twice before she could clear her throat, not from hurt, but from another emotion entirely.
Two pages. On the left side, a woodcut of a vast black wyrm, triple-winged and infinite horned, wrapped about a hill with a white tower. On the right, closely packed calligraphy, the ink still remembering the quill that had spread it. The words runnelled together before her will flexed, then cleared. At the top of the page, gold leaf trembled as it shaped a word.
Vortis was merely a use-name. Emma’s entire body quivered, and her earrings swung, tapping her cheeks uneasily. The cameo at her throat warmed, and she dimly heard the door open, Mikal saying something. Her
well-trained memory dilated, the book speaking to her in its ancient language, her lips moving as the world hushed around her, motes of golden dust hanging suspended and the witchballs pausing in their spluttering hisses.
She was not one for prayer, except the fashionable sort uttered at conventional moments; besides, sorceresses were doubly damned by every church, Roman, Englican, or otherwise. But had she been the pious sort, Emma thought hazily, she might well start praying.
Vortis cruca esth, Mehitabel had hissed.
The Principia slammed shut, locks thudding closed. Emma blinked. Her cheeks were crusted with salt, and her stomach rumbled. How much time had she lost, gazing at the pages, intuition and intellect communing directly with the Text?
Mikal’s hand closed around her shoulder. “You are at Childe’s, in Tithe Street. It is almost Tideturn.” Did he sound ashamed?
Did she care?
At the door stood another Shield. Dark-haired, a trifle shorter than Mikal but a little broader in the shoulder, a Bowie knife worn openly at his hip and his eyes closed. His features were even, regular, and as she shuddered, fully waking, his own eyes opened. He shifted forward incrementally, his mouth firmed. He looked just like a quick-fingered Liverpool bravo, though Childe, with his usual irritating attention to detail, had him in a flashy waistcoat over a fine white high-collared shirt. At least his cloth was good, even if the boots looked dreadfully impractical.
For a moment she could not remember who or what she was. It flooded back, and she shuddered again. Mikal’s fingers tensed. She did not need the pain to steady herself, though the Duchess of Kent had suddenly become rather a small problem indeed.
Vortis cruca esth.
Or, if you did not speak the wyrm’s slow sonorous hiss …
Vortigern will rise.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Throckmorton, I Presume
As chance would have it, Sig’s acquaintance Becker had lodgings near Thrushneedle Dock, a mean hole reeking of cabbage and gin but cleaner than one would suppose. There was much cheerful swearing in heavy German, Sigmund slapped the young hevvymancer’s back, and glasses of beer were produced.
Becker was lean, in a hevvymancer’s traditional red bracers and herringbone wool cap, heavy boots and a wide smile missing his front left canine. Perhaps he hated toothcharmers too, or could not afford one. Clare surmised that most of the young man’s money went to his ailing mother in a lumpen shawl, who shuffled between the single cot and the ancient stove, poking at a pot of boiling something and gazing at her only surviving son with weak, misty eyes. The woman spoke no English, but Becker had been born in Londinium, and a good thing it was too. Had he been born in Germany itself, his hevvymancing would be unreliable here, and both of them might starve.
“Lindorm,” Becker said, finally, standing because he had pressed Clare to take the only chair. Valentinelli stood by the door, examining his fingernails; the room was far too small for four males and the old woman’s skirts. “Ja. Only open a fortnight and odd, taking deliveries.” His accent was a mixture of his mother tongue and pure dockside nasal, a song of the displaced. “We wondered. But they paid good bounty on Prussians, so they raked ’em in. No use sitting about when’s shill’n to be earned.”
“What bounty did they pay?” Clare settled himself carefully. The chair was alarmingly fragile, not to mention fusty, and the floor sloped.
“Two bob apiece, more for more. Heps over at Mockgale, he brought crates o’ them, got a pound apiece. That fair made it scruth. Every jack and hevvy scramblin t’ sell any bit o’metal an shine could be called Pruss.” Becker’s face twisted; he removed his cap and scratched along his hairline. “Made out fair m’self, I did. But legal-like.”
Oh, certainly. And I am a monkey’s waistcoat. “I am quite sure you were entirely legal. So, Lindorm closed after a fortnight and a few days?”
“Aye. ’Twixt one Turn and the next, pop! Gone like a skipper’s goodwill. Never quite right, that place. We smells the odd, we do, and there was mancy there. Big, not like a hevvy or a shipwitch. Lord magic, that was. High’n mighty.”
“Most curious. Who is buying Prussian capacitors now?”
“Naught. Some gents like to tear their own hair out waiting; some says they’re in France somewhere, others say held up in the Low, one or two wot might know says the Pruss factories holdin ’em. Frenchie glassers and Hopkins shinies selling hand over fist now, since Prussians ent to be had.”
Clare’s eyelids dropped to half-mast; his thin fingers steepled under his proud long nose. Sigmund peered longingly toward the cauldron at the stove; Frau Becker muttered something and waved a wooden spoon as she advanced, menacing.
Sigmund sighed, heavily.
Clare absorbed the implications of young Becker’s tale. “Would you happen to know where Lindorm sent the capacitors they had?”
“Oh, ’tis easy, guv.” Becker’s lean chest puffed, and he stuck his thumbs under his bracers. “Hired a crew of hevvy to charm a load of waggon, drays and all, four days’ wages for two day haulin’ to St Cat’s, in the Shadow. Big warehouse there, black as sin, ’twas.”
“Did you take advantage of this easy work?”
“Weren’t nuffink easy ’bout it, sir. Nags were restless, loads kept slippin’, heavy as churchman’s purse each crate and bell. Each hevvy earned that two pound, sir.”
“I see. Well, what particulars can you tell me of the gentlemen engaging your services?”
On this Becker was no fountain of knowledge; the work had simply been available, and he had taken it. By the time Clare had finished questioning and paid the man for his trouble – two guineas, part of the purse thoughtfully supplied by Miss Bannon that very morning against just such an eventuality – he was almost feeling cautiously cheerful. Becker gave one of the coins to his mother, who held it up and bit at it, though she was lacking teeth; the young man assured him that should he ever need a hevvy, Becker was sienen Mann, ja.
Outside, the street was still as throbbing-active as ever, carts rumbling by, hevvymancers chanting a song of harsh consonants and sliding nasal vowels. A line of yellow glare fell against the wall opposite, broken only by the low doors of public houses vying for trade, rollicking even at this early hour. A heavy-bearded Jack, fresh from the sea by the roll in his drunken gait, stumbled to a stop and began heaving up a mess of gin and somewhat else, to the amusement of passers-by and the great delight of a pair of ragged, bony curs, who immediately began lapping at the offal.
The Neapolitan, however, was not in the mood for sightseeing. He grabbed Clare’s elbow. “Eh, signor, you are not planning a visit to la Torre?”
“If I must. Into the belly of Hell itself, Mr Valentinelli. Britannia is in need, and this is passing interesting.”
“La strega said nothing about la Torre.”
“If you feel yourself incapable, signor, by all means depart.” Clare jammed his hat more firmly on his head. “Sig! Old man, find us some repast and a decent place to smoke a pipe. I must think.”
But Valentinelli gripped his arm even more firmly. “You insult me.”
If I had, sir, you would already be attempting to kill me, blood oath or no. “By no means, signor. Do you know what the most incredible part of young Becker’s tale is?”
The Neapolitan’s answering oath expressed that he cared not a whit, and Sigmund’s florid face was suddenly drawn and grey as he witnessed this. The worthy Bavarian’s hand was hidden in his coat pocket, probably preparatory to bringing forth his trusty clasp knife, and Clare decided he had best smooth the waters. People were so difficult.
“The incredible part, sir, is that young Becker is still alive.” He met Valentinelli’s gaze squarely. “Which means the feared Shadow of the Tower of Londinium is the least of our worries, for our greatest is whoever may be watching a hevvymancer or two, to see if they speak. Or to pay them for reporting any enquiries made about a certain load of goods. Or – and this is the idea I find most unsettling, sir – their plan
is so near fruition they care very little about any hound on their trail.”
The assassin halted. His pocked face was still and set, but the rigidity of his jaw had eased, and so did his hand upon Clare’s arm.
Clare nodded, once. “You see. Very good. Come, my noble Neapolitan. I do need to think, and I’d prefer to do it somewhere a touch more comfortable.” He paused. “And perhaps more defensible as well.”
The Tower of Londinium was actually a collection of towers, held back from crashing down on the city by the grey arms of the Sorrowswall clutching at each rising spire. The White Tower rose above them all, sorcerously sheathed in glittering pale marble, bloody-hued charter symbols sliding in rivulets down its sides. Traitors met their end here, and those criminals judged too noble to be hanged at a common gaol. The fetid moat ran with murky oilsheen, and under its surface rippled … something. Rumour hotly disputed what beast it was, but all agreed it ate the bodies after the beheadings, and the heads sometimes after the showing.
And, occasionally, it took live prey.
But it wasn’t the Dweller in the Moat Londinium’s masses feared. It was the Shadow.
Sometimes it wreathed the towers, slinking along the walls, slithering down to brush the surface of the moat’s oily water. It was not fog, or cloud – it was simply dark dank grey, and it prowled the neighbourhood of the Tower as a silent lumbering beast. Charm and charter did not hold it back – only a Master Sorcerer or above could make it seek elsewhere, by some means they kept hidden behind closed mouths.
Sorcerers disliked the Tower’s environs too – the misery and death soaking it, perhaps. The quietest places in Londinium were under the Shadow’s heel. Still, there were those who sought it as a sanctuary – those who needed to be certain of the law’s reluctance to follow them.
Or those whose Alterations had gone badly. It was against the Tower’s walls that the Morloks lived. During the day, one did not need to fear them overmuch.
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