The Iron Wyrm Affair tb&ca-1

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “Oh, bloody hell,” she breathed, just as the light failed completely.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Unpleasant, But Instructive

  Clare clasped the crackling brown paper, soaked with vinegar, to his aching head. “Unpleasant,” he murmured. “Highly unpleasant. But instructive.”

  “I am glad to hear your afternoon went so well,” Miss Bannon replied. “Mine was equally instructive, and it was very disagreeable dealing with the Shadow near the Tower. But, my dear Mr Clare, please answer me. What in the name of the seven Hells were those … things? Sorcery does not touch them; this upsets me a great deal.”

  He shifted on the fainting-couch. The sitting room was very comfortable, despite the tension sparking in every corner. “Obviously. I am trying to find a word that would explain them to a layman, but the best I can do is homunculus or golem. Neither is precise, mind you, but—”

  “Mr Clare.” Quietly, but with great force. “Kindly do not become distracted, sir. I have a dead body in my study that grows no fresher, and I cannot question the man’s shade effectively unless and until I have some answers from you.” Her tone grew sharper. “And Ludo, darling? Stop whistling, or I shall sew your lips together.”

  Clare peeled open one eye to see Miss Bannon perched on a low stool at his side, high colour in her cheeks and her hair most fetchingly disarranged. Behind her, Sigmund’s wide faithful face loomed. The Bavarian was chewing on something that rather startlingly resembled a wurst and a slice of yellow cheese.

  “Ah.” Clare cleared his throat. “Miss Bannon, may I present to you Mr Sigmund Baerbarth, genius, and my personal friend? Sig, this is Miss Bannon, a most interesting sorceress.”

  “How do you do,” Miss Bannon said over her shoulder, and Sig nodded, swallowing hastily.

  “Seer geehrte, Fraulein Bannon.”

  The sorceress returned her dark gaze to Clare, who had gathered himself sufficiently to face such an examination calmly. The vinegar did not help much. “Pray fetch me some ice and salt, if you would. My head aches abominably.”

  Bannon glanced over her shoulder again, her jet earrings swinging, and there was a murmur from the door. There seemed a large number of people crowding the sitting room. The rain had started, and its patter against the window panes was an additional irritation. When she again returned her attention to him, her mien had softened.

  “You saved my life, Mr Clare.” Her childlike face was sombre now. And yes – those were her gloved fingers, delicately holding his free hand. “That thing had cannons on its … arms, I suppose one would call them. Who was controlling the other one?”

  “Hm. Well, yes.” An uncomfortable heat mounted in his cheeks. Her little hand was trembling; he could feel it through the kidskin. “Bit of quick thinking, that. It was a mentath. Throckmorton.”

  “Remarkably spry for a dead man. He escaped. Helped by Mr Devon’s Shields, I am told, which is shocking enough. I am quite put out that Mr Devon was not captured alive.”

  “Ah. Well. Miss Bannon, allow me to collect myself for a moment. Then I shall answer your questions. Is there tea?”

  “Of course. Shall I fetch you some?”

  Well, she is remarkably calm, under the circumstances. “With lemon, please.”

  The ice arrived in a well-scalded and proof-charmed cloth, and between that and a cuppa he was soon sitting upright, blinking in the rainy failing light. He did not care to know how he had been transported to Miss Bannon’s house, other than to be grateful at the occurrence. The splitting pain of strained faculties inside his skull receded bit by bit.

  Mikal hovered at Miss Bannon’s shoulder as she sipped her own tea, thoughtfully, her little finger raised just so. The Shield’s face was a thundercloud, and Clare suspected the reason was the other Shield, a dark-haired man who leaned almost somnolent at the mantel. The mystery of where Miss Bannon had acquired him could wait, Clare decided as his temples throbbed.

  Ludovico Valentinelli, on the far side of the fireplace, was engaged upon cleaning his fingernails with another of his many knives, and glancing curiously at the new Shield. Sig was at the tea table, munching happily. Every so often the Neapolitan would drift to the table and help himself. It was a comfort to see their appetites undiminished, even if they were still soot-stained and faintly wild-eyed.

  “Now,” Clare said, finally, when he was certain his voice would remain steady. “It is much worse than either of us feared, Miss Bannon. Those things, the mechanisterum homunculi, for lack of a better term; Sig would merely call them mecha, dear boy that he is – do not run on Alterative sorcery. They can be run directly through the smaller logic engines inside their chest cavities. You will no doubt have noticed the glow at my chest while—”

  “Yes. Proceed.” One of her hatpins, he saw, had broken. He wondered if she had found the pieces; decided not to think on it too deeply lest overstress fuse his brain into uselessness.

  “They must be run by a mentath. My current state is the cost of handling such an engine without preparation. The equations are … very difficult. But that is not what concerns us.” He winced, took another swallow of tea. “Some toast, perhaps?”

  “Of course. Mikal, please fetch him a plate.” Visibly calmer, Miss Bannon settled on the cushioned stool. Her skirts were arranged very prettily, Clare noticed.

  It was the first time one of these episodes had not ended with her in tatters, he reflected. Doubtless she was glad.

  He brought his attention back to the matter at hand. “The larger – the master logic engine, you see, would not be in that warehouse. It is being kept safe elsewhere. The master engine will be the transmitter. Those – the mechanicals you saw – are all receivers, with limited capability of being run directly. With a large enough transmitting engine, especially handling the sub-equations in a useful fashion, which is possible with enough power supplied through the core, the mentath wired to the transmitting engine will have control of an army.”

  Silence.

  Miss Bannon had gone quite white. She stared not at him but through him, her gaze disconcertingly direct and remote at the same time.

  “An army.” Very thoughtful, and very soft. She took another sip of tea. “One that does not need food, or rest. One that sorcery does not touch.”

  “The field generated by the logic engines –”

  “– rather makes it difficult for sorcery to penetrate. Yes, Mr Clare. And Mr Throckmorton alive.” She continued, pedantically, after a long pause. “I wonder whose corpse was at Grace Street. And what Throckmorton was doing there with Devon.”

  “Standing guard, perhaps? Who would look for a mentath in the Shadow?” He suppressed a shudder at the thought. “I am not quite myself at the moment, Miss Bannon. Pray do not question me too much; it may overtax my faculties and I shall become a brain-melted embarrassment.”

  A fleeting, half-guilty smile greeted his sally. Mikal appeared, bearing a plate of provender. “Prima?”

  “Hm?” She glanced up as Clare started gratefully on his toast.

  “I have an idea.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think it would be most instructive to learn the recent movements of a dead Master Sorcerer.” The Shield straightened, folding his arms. “One who was running errands for Lord Sellwyth.”

  Sellwyth? Yes, the dead Prime. Clare winced again. Even such a simple act of memory strained the meat inside his skull most alarmingly.

  “Quite.” She took another sip of tea. She was still distressingly pale. “I wonder if anyone else has seen Mr Devon of late? Childe said a fortnight or so ago. The last time I saw him was at Tomlinson’s. Where he had bungled the traces rather neatly, it now appears.” She closed her eyes, gathering herself. When she reopened them, her gaze was very direct – and very, very cold. “Still, a corpse to mislead investigation is not difficult to procure, and the remains at Grace Street were so badly burnt … If Throckmorton is alive …”

  Silence filled the room. Clare hoped she did not re
quire his faculties to see her way through the tangle. He crunched on his toast, relishing the butter and the thick bread.

  “I am very interested in Hugh Devon’s movements,” Miss Bannon continued. “However, following him is a waste of time, since he is dead. If Throckmorton is alive—”

  “Cedric Grayson’s signature is on the papers you gave me, Miss Bannon. You must not be as familiar with his hand as I am.” Clare’s attention snagged on a memory, and a braying laugh surprised him. “The sherry was poisoned. How typical.”

  “Sherry?”

  That was why it reeked as it did. It was cheap, yes, but also adulterated. “When we visited the Chancellor. At the time I thought the sherry dreadfully cheap, but Cedric’s aesthetics are so bad—”

  “Poison. I see. A slow-acting one, no doubt, meant to preserve some parts of you.”

  “Preserve?”

  “The other unregistered mentaths were missing their brains and spinal cords. I rather thought it had something to do with a mad Alterations sorcerer.”

  “Oh.” Clare shuddered. No wonder she had reserved that information. It changed the entire complexion of the affair, but his faculties were too aching and strained to make use of the revelation.

  “And the trap in Bedlam,” Miss Bannon continued daintily, “was meant to take care of me, possibly while I was occupied in ministering to you. Rather tidy. Which brings us to another interesting question.”

  As long as you do not expect me to answer said query, dear God. “Which is?”

  “Where is Lord Sellwyn? If Throckmorton is alive, I find it hard to believe he is truly deceased.”

  Indeed. “Ah. Well. I cannot help you.”

  “No need.” She sipped again, delicately, and he had the sudden fancy that there were very few places Lord Sellwyn would be able to hide once Miss Bannon took a serious interest in finding him. “Tell me, Mr Clare, how long will it take your faculties to recover?”

  He cogitated upon this, carefully, wincing. “A few hours, and one of your most excellent dinners, should see me right as rain, Miss Bannon.”

  “Very well. Concern yourself with restoring said faculties, sir, and I shall speak with you after dinner.” She opened her eyes and rose, waving at him abstractedly as he moved as if to rise as well. “No, no, do stay seated. You have done very well, Mr Clare. Very well indeed. After dinner, then.”

  He found his mouth was dry. “Certainly. But Miss Bannon?”

  She was already halfway to the door, her teacup handed to Mikal and her stride lengthening, skirts snapping. “Yes?”

  “The next time you use me as bait, madam, have the goodness to inform me. I do not mind being dangled on a hook. As a matter of fact, I derive a certain enjoyment from it. But I would rather not endanger my friends.”

  She paused. “You were not bait, Mr Clare. You were more of a dach’s-hund, meant to flush the prey.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  A single, queenly nod. Did she unknowingly copy that movement from Victrix? Yet another question that could wait until his head ceased its abominable pounding.

  “Yes, Mr Clare. You have earned as much. My apologies.” And with that, she swept out through the door the new Shield held for her.

  The door closed, leaving him with the assassin and Sigmund. Who crunched on something from his plate, licked his fingers, and belched contentedly.

  “What a woman,” he said, dreamily. “Ein Eis Madchen. Archibald, mein Herr, I believe I am in love.”

  The Neapolitan, upon hearing this, laughed fit to choke. Clare simply clasped the water-proofed ice cloth to his head and sighed.

  Dinner, though superb, was a somewhat hurried affair.

  Miss Bannon, appearing in black silk and even more fantastic jewellery, waited until the vegetable course. “I shall deal with Lord Sellwyth, Grayson, and Throckmorton. You, Mr Clare, shall deal with finding and – should it become necessary – destroying the larger logic engine.”

  “Splendid.” He dabbed his lips with his napkin. Beside him, Valentinelli had dispensed with rudeness for once, and was partaking with exquisite manners. Across from him, Mikal and the new Shield – Eli – set to with a will. On the Neapolitan’s other side, Sigmund expressed his admiration for the excellence of the dinner in mumbled German. He seemed supremely unconcerned with any larger questions, such as what his landlady and his apprentice would think of his disappearance and the state of his workshop. He had already dashed off a note for them penny-post, and then put them from his capacious mind, which was already busy worrying at other problems. “How do you propose I do so? I have my ideas, of course –”

  “– but you would like to know if I questioned a dead sorcerer’s shade, and can shed any light on the situation. I did, Mr Clare, and I can.”

  Clare noted that the new Shield turned pale and stared at his plate, before shaking his head slightly and renewing his interest in his food. Interesting. It was a pleasure to deduce again, without the inside of his skull feeling as if acid had been poured through it. The equations had nearly cracked him, the small logic engine cramming force through his capabilities until his head was a swollen pumpkin ready to burst. He had not felt so skull-tender since his Examination.

  The new Shield was a Liverpool boy, dark-haired and not very comfortable in his high-collared coat that almost matched Mikal’s. His boots were more impractical than Mikal’s – or for that matter, the sorceress’s – and Clare thought it likely Miss Bannon had not acquired his services as part of a well-laid plan. Another refugee, perhaps, to add to her household of cast-offs?

  Or did Miss Bannon think the dangers of the situation finally required another Shield? Why not more than one, then?

  The implications of that question were extraordinarily troubling. Just like the implications of the harvesting of other mentaths’ nervous organs.

  He brought his attention back to the matter at hand. Sometimes, after a violent shock, a mentath’s mind wandered down logical byways, taking every route but the one most direct. “Please do.”

  “My method of procuring the information—”

  “Does not trouble me at all, Miss Bannon. I believe I am past being troubled, at least for the next fortnight. After that, we shall see.” His digestion, at least, was sound. It was a small mercy. “Nothing you could tell me would discommode me more than this afternoon’s adventure.”

  Her pained half-smile told him she rather doubted it, but was too polite to say as much. “Very well. Mr Devon’s shade, when pressed, informed me that the conspiracy is very near fruition. It appears a single thing is lacking – a shipment of something from Prussia.”

  “Prussian capacitors, most likely.” Clare nodded. “Especially if they intend to have a single mentath run the transmitting engine; each one will help with the subsidiary equations. I am not so sure what the nervous organs are for, but no doubt they have some function. The question of just which mentath they have to run the damn thing—”

  “Is irrelevant at the moment. The Prussian things were delayed due to weather; they are to arrive in Dover tomorrow morning.” Miss Bannon was pale again. “You and your companions shall intercept this shipment and do whatever possible to delay and disrupt the part of the conspiracy that hinges on them.”

  “And you will be occupied with?” Though he already knew, he found he wished to hear her say it. She was, he reflected, a most unusual woman, and it was rather nice to converse with someone who did not require intellectual coddling.

  Someone who could think.

  “It is high time Lord Grayson answered some questions.” Level and chill, her gaze focused on the graceful silver epergne. The table’s gryphon legs writhed, uneasily, but the snow-white tablecloth was flat and straight. The cadaverous Mr Finch, without asking, brought a decanter and a small glass to Miss Bannon’s place; without looking, she accepted the glass and tossed its contents far down her throat with only a small ladylike grimace afterward. “Thank you, Mr Finch. Excuse me, gentlemen, but I require some bolsteri
ng. This is an unpleasant business.”

  “I agree.” Clare found himself reaching for his wine glass. I rather envy her the rum. But it would dull his faculties, even as it afforded him some relief. A fraction of coja might help, but he could not take that at table. Later, then. “There is something that troubles me, Miss Bannon.”

  A slight lift of an eyebrow. “And what is that?”

  “This is no ordinary conspiracy. What could these persons wish to accomplish with an army, even one so formidable as this? And where has the money to fund such a venture arrived from? This is most remarkable. I am very curious.”

  The rum seemed to make no impression on her. “There are things it is best for you not to know, Mr Clare. I am sorry.”

  “Ah. Well.” He sipped at his wine. “I work best when I am informed, Miss Bannon. It is very unlikely that whoever wishes to unseat Britannia’s current incarnation has merely one army or plan at their disposal. Even if that army is one sorcery will not touch.”

  The table rattled slightly. Even Sigmund looked up, his chewing halted for a moment.

  Miss Bannon’s childlike face turned even more set. Twin sparks of crimson flashed in her pupils for a few moments, then vanished. “We are not dealing with merely one conspiracy, Mr Clare. We are dealing with an unholy alliance of competing interests, none of whom are being exactly honest with each other. There is at least one party who wishes the destruction of Britannia Herself, one who possibly only wishes the damage of Her current incarnation to make said incarnation amenable to coercion, and a third who wishes to sow as much confusion and chaos as possible in order to impair the Empire in any way they may.” Her long jet earrings swung even though she was motionless, and the large black gem on a silver choker about her slim throat flashed with a single white-hot charter symbol for a moment. Her curls stirred, on a slow cool breeze that came from nowhere and ruffled along Clare’s own face. “I will allow none of this, and I will conclude this matter to my satisfaction and in the manner I deem best.”