… but she had not, and the little man was not the first to cast aspersions. Sellwyth, Britannia’s fanged reward for her part in the affair, and an insurance that a possible key to the Colourless Wyrm’s waking was in safe hands.
Safe, long-lived hands. Emma kept said appendages decorously loose in her lap. To take umbrage or even acknowledge the remark would overstep the bounds of propriety, but such a consideration did not halt her as much as it should. Instead, the genuine regard Victrix showed for the man made her refrain. And the fact that he seemed to wish to be a shield for her at Court and in the game of politics. Even though Britannia was the spirit of rule, there were still other factors to account for, and other centres of power to be balanced – and carefully stacked, so that the spirit of the Isle was not forced to certain acts.
No, the Saxon-Kolbe pretender to a seat less than an Englene county was not worthy of Emma’s ire.
Still, this will be added to the list of insults I remember. Odd, how that list grows and grows.
“Alberich.” The warning was less mild now. “Do not.”
“Sorceress.” The Prince Consort shook his head. But he subsided, and Victrix chose not to take him to task.
It was not, Emma reflected, that he found the arts of æther overly problematic. Charm and charter, sorcerers and witches, were to be found in his homeland as well. It was the fact of Emma’s sex that gave the Prince Consort lee to insult, suspect and provoke her. She had long since grown as used to such treatment as daily exposure could make one.
“Emma.” Victrix sighed, and Britannia rose under her features again. The sorceress held herself very still, but the ruling spirit retreated with an unheard rushing, a tide soughing back to the ocean’s embrace. “One of Our Own is missing.”
She absorbed the statement and its implications. “Sorcerer, or…?”
“A physicker. Merely genius, We believe. A Mr John Morris. You are familiar with a certain Mr Rudyard?”
Emma nodded. Her curls swung, and the rings on her left hand sparked slightly. Dear old Kim. Lovely. “He is visiting again, then.” Master sorcerers and Adepts lived long, but not nearly as long as Primes, of course. Rudyard courted death with a disdain and ferocity matched only by his single-minded dedication to Queen and Empire.
Slum-children, both of them, and if Rudyard despised Emma for the fact of her greater talent and the insult of her femininity, she could easily despise him in return for his violent arrogance, since she knew its source.
The trouble was, that arrogance sounded an echo in her own self, much as Llewellyn Gwynnfud’s had. And Rudyard, well, had been quite attached to Llew in his own way.
Had he received word of Lord Sellwyth’s mysterious disappearance? It was very likely. And equally likely that he would suspect Emma of having a hand in said mystery.
For God – and Kim Rudyard – would both know that no other Prime could have faced Llew and survived. Or was that her own arrogance, again? Such an unfeminine trait.
“He is at the Rostrand.” The Queen’s expression suggested she was mystified, and Emma was hard put to hide a smile. “We are told he has… a monkey.”
I am certain he does. Half-smile, half-pained grimace, Emma dispelled the expression before it could truly reach the architecture of her face. “How droll.”
“He was the one to discover the physicker’s absence. He will have the particulars for you.”
And that is very curious. Rudyard come to Englene’s shores and discovering such a thing? “Yes, Your Majesty.” Emma waited. Is that all? A physicker absconding, a mere genius? Not even a mentath? But she did not press further.
She never had, beyond by your leave or if I may. If she could not guess, she would wait to be told, and keep her thoughts to herself. The principle had stood her in marvellous good stead in dealing with royalty.
It was also of good use when dealing with enemies, or potential enemies. Which covered a great deal of the globe’s surface, no doubt.
The Prince Consort was breathing heavily through his nose, a huffing that denoted both unease with the proceedings and disdain for this common-born hussy who dared to sit, even when invited to do so, in the presence of Britannia.
Finally, Victrix nodded. She smoothed the fabric over her rounded belly, her fingers stippling over the loose corseting recommended at this juncture for supporting the distension of generation. “That will be all. Should you find Mr Morris, bring him to Our presence. But gently. We require him whole.”
“I shall be as a mother cat with a kitten.” Emma did not move. What would it feel like, to swell and split with a screaming little thing, a new life? Did she choose to breed, she would find out… but not yet. Though it was held to be a woman’s highest happiness, she could forgo a little longer. “By your leave, then, Your Majesty?”
“Most certainly.” Victrix’s sigh was heavy. Even the Little Crown weighed terribly, and what was it like to host a being as ancient and headstrong as Britannia? Was it like a sorcerer opening himself to his Discipline, and becoming merely the throat a song moved through? At least a sorcerer knew the song would recede, and was trained to bear the shock of being simply an empty cup.
Emma Bannon rose, paid her courtesy. She did not acknowledge the Prince Consort. She left the room with a determined step and a rustle of skirts, uncaring if he took offence. It would serve the petty little man right.
Victrix wishes me to find a man. I should find Clare’s doctor as well, and make them both happy.
She was, she realised, quite unsettled. It was not Alberich of Saxon-Kolbe’s shot across her bow that worried her.
It was the fact that Conroy had not been in attendance this morning, and the Duchess of Kent had been far too easily disposed of.
I smell a rat. Later, of course, she would chide herself for being so exercised over what could have been coincidence… but at the moment, Emma Bannon was distracted, and in any case, how could she have known? Even a Prime could not tell the future with a certainty.
For now, she had her orders, the die was cast, and she winged towards her prey as a good merlin should.
Chapter Seven
An Admirer
Clare relit his pipe. Fragrant tabac smoke lifted, the charm near the ceiling crackling into life again. Afternoon light slanted through the window, past heavy wine-red velvet drapes and quiescent-glowing charter charms bleached by the sun’s glow.
They had finally left him in peace. Valentinelli was no doubt in the kitchen, stuffing his pocked face and tormenting broad genial Cook; the footmen had gone about their business. The comfortable, dark-wainscoted room felt much smaller now, since his effects were unpacked over the table and into the capacious wardrobe. A full set of alembics brought by Sigmund Baerbarth – Horace would notify the cadaverous butler, Finch, to procure larger stands for them – and several of his journals were stacked higgledypiggledy. Perhaps, if Miss Bannon wished him to remain hutched for a long period of time, she would make a workroom available? The sorceress’s domicile often seemed larger inside than out, and there were curious… crannies, that sometimes seemed to change position.
His long nose twitched at the thought, as if he had detected an unpleasant odour. The irrationality of that thought was an itch under the surface of his skull. Once more he confined the irregularities of 34½ Brooke Street to the mental drawer of complex problems not requiring a solution at the present juncture. Several of Miss Bannon’s peculiarities filled even that capacious space to overflowing.
There was a reason mentath and sorcerer did not often mix.
Clare puffed, and turned his attention to the most interesting letter – the one he had left unopened, setting it aside to savour.
It was a joy to have something unknown. The paper was heavy, linen-crafted but not bearing any of the characteristics of a maker Clare was familiar with. Privately made, then? Perhaps. The ink was bitter gall, and a ghost of… yes, it was myrrh, clinging to the envelope’s texture. It had not been franked, either. Left with Mrs
Ginn, for Clare spotted a telltale grease-spot on one corner; the redoubtable woman had been called from her pasty-making, no doubt. Although, Clare allowed, it could merely have been slipped into the postbox, for it was addressed to him very plainly, in a cramped hand that was certainly a gambit meant to disguise the sender. Male, from the way the nib dug into the paper. The simple trick of writing with one’s left hand, unless Clare missed his guess.
Oh, this is delicious.
The seal was old-fashioned, a blob of scented wax. Clare inhaled delicately. Yes, that was definitely a breath of myrrh.
A church candle used for sealing. And not just any church, but Reformed Englican of the Saviour. They used such a blend of incense in their rituals; and there were only three of their ilk in Londinium, unless Clare had missed one springing up in the last ten years.
Oh, careful, Archibald. Candle-wax is not enough to build a cathedral of reason upon. Remember your own words upon the matter of Assumptions, and how dangerous they are.
The wax crackled and creaked. The symphony of its breaking proved its provenance, but a candle could be stolen. Or the envelope could have been left in a church to absorb its aroma.
Who would go so far?
He suspected. Oh, how he suspected! Another man, not a mentath, would have called the sensation a glorious tension, rather as the moment before a beloved yielded to his embrace. A swelling, a throbbing, a pleasurable itch.
He drew the letter forth. Expensive, to use an envelope rather than writing the address on the outside of a cunningly folded missive. But what was expense, between rivals or lovers? And the envelope would rob him of a deduction caught in a missive’s folds.
He sniffed the folded paper, again, so delicately. That same breath of myrrh, with an acrid note that was not the gall of ink.
Sewage. Oh, your escape was closer than I suspected. Good.
A single page, and a message of surpassing simplicity.
Dear Sir, your genius is much appreciated. Please do me the honour of considering me your Friend, not merely a Galling Annoyance. I remain, etc., An Admirer.
Clare’s entire frame itched and tingled with anticipation. He closed his eyes, and his faculties burned inside his skull like a star. The two sentences were layered with meaning; even the shape of the letters had to be considered.
“My dear Doctor,” he whispered, in the smothering quiet of his invalid’s room. “Another game? Very well.”
The Neapolitan eyed him narrowly. “I know that look, sir.”
“Hm?” Clare absently knocked ash free of his pipe, blinking. “I say, is it afternoon already?”
“Ci.” A pile of broadsheets thumped on the cluttered table, and Valentinelli turned slowly in a full circle, his flat dark gaze roving over every surface. “And you are up to mischief.”
“I have been sitting here quietly for some hours, my good man.” Merely exercising my faculties in different directions, readying them for another go at the good Doctor. “Very quietly. Just as an invalid should.”
“Ha!” Ludo’s hand whipped forward, flashing an obscene gesture very popular on Londinium’s docks. “You complain and complain. La strega wish to take good care of you, sit and grow fat.”
“I do not do well with idleness. You have been my man long enough to know as much.” Even to himself he sounded peevish and fretful.
“Today I am not your man. Today I am your dama di compagnia.” A sneer further twisted his dark unlovely face. “She leave you in Ludo’s hand because you are foolish little thing. I told you, a pistole would have solved all problems, pouf.”
You think that if you repeat yourself, I will suddenly agree? “I wished to catch the man, not kill him.”
“So I shoot to wound. You must have more faith, mentale. It is your silly teatime. La Francese sent me to collect you.”
“Madame Noyon is too kind.” Clare stretched, the armchair suddenly uncomfortable as his lanky frame reminded him he had been wrapt in a mentath’s peculiar trance for far too long. The flesh, of course, was no fit temple for a soul dedicated to pure logic.
Not that a mentath was purely a logic engine. Their faculties only approximated such a device; sometimes, Clare was even forced to admit that was best. The pursuit of pure logic had dangers even the most devoted of its disciples must acknowledge. Still, it was a frustration almost beyond parallel to feel the weight of physical infirmity as age advanced upon him.
He did not mind it so much as he minded the fear – and yes, it was fear, for a mentath was not devoid of Feeling – of the infirmity somehow reaching his faculties. Dimming them, and the glory of logic and deduction fading.
That would be uncomfortably like the Hell the old Church, and even the Church Englican, did spout so much about.
It took him far longer than he liked to reach his feet, setting his jacket to rights with quick brushing movements. His knees were suspiciously, well… wibbly. It was the only term that applied.
Ludovico watched, far more closely than was his wont. “Good God, sir, I am not about to faint.” Clare took stock. He was respectable enough for tea, at least.
“You look dreadful.” But then the Neapolitan waved away any further conversation. “Come, tea. At least la Francese will have antipasti. Ludo is hungry. Hurry along.”
Chapter Eight
Only If You Do Not Displease
The Rostrand was not an old hotel, but it was fit for visiting royalty. Very few of Englene’s natives would stay in its luxurious wallow; it was far too Continental. The walls were sheathed with kielstone, which meant the native flow of æther would not overly discommode foreign guests with any sorcerous talent. And, not so incidentally, so their own alienness would not create stray harmful bits of irrationality.
Rudyard was not a foreigner, precisely. He had been born in the glare and monsoon of the Indus. Which was practically Empire, true… but it still made certain of his talents unreliable when he ventured beyond the subcontinent’s borders.
How that must irk him.
It was no great trick to locate him in the coffee room off the cavernous overdone lobby with its glittering chandelier overhead sparking and hissing with repression charms. Mirrors in gilded frames reflected fashionable plumed hats atop women’s curls, the height of Parissian fashion favouring dark rich jewel-colours this year, and men in sober black, a faint look of ill-ease marking every foreigner no matter how expensively dressed. The gaslamps were lit, their light softening each edge and picking out nuances of colour sunlight would bleach. The morning’s glamour had not made her overly sensitive, but she still blinked rapidly. Even the rainy light outside was too much, sometimes.
The French were much in evidence today, and Emma’s trained glance stored faces while her obedient memory returned names for some of them. Some of the guests here bore watching – the Monacan Ambassador, for one, oiled and sleek and quite fashionable to have in a drawing room lately. His tiny principality did not rate him such importance, and there were certain troubling rumours about his proclivities, both personal and professional, that would require attention sooner or later.
The coffee room was sun-bright and pleasant, done in a rather Eastern style. Sky-blue cushions with gilt tassels, a splendid hookah in a nook by a chimney – most likely defunct, a relic of some travel through a pawnshop – and cages of well-bred canaries cringing under a lash of high-pitched noise.
No, it was not difficult to locate Kim Finchwilliam Rudyard after all. For the small monkey, the ruff around its intelligent little face glowing silver, was screeching fit to pierce eardrums and shatter every single mirror and glass in the Rostrand’s atrium.
Several harried employees fluttered about carrying different items perhaps meant to appease the howling beast – or its master. Who sat, apparently unconcerned, in a large leather chair near one of the fireplaces, one of the day’s broadsheets open before his lean tanned face.
His cloth was sober and surpassingly fine, his waistcoat not disguising the taut trim frame beneath and h
is morning coat no doubt the finest the Burlington Estate could produce. Not for him the snappish newness of Savile Row; Rudyard’s taste for the most conservative of fashions was an involuntary comment upon what he no doubt fancied was a hidden desire. To be more of the Isle than Britannia Herself would have suited him royally, for all Rudyard was a young and bastard son.
A nose too hawk and cheekbones too broad, a skin deeply tanned by the Indus’s fierce sun – but not enough to be native of that dark-spiced country, no. Later he would be as seamed and rough as a nut, but for the time being, he was merely unusual. A gold ring very much like a Lascar’s adornment dangled from one earlobe, and his hair was too fair for the Indus and the wrong manner of dark for Britannia. He wore no moustache, and though his colour was not muddy as so many half-castes were, the exotic on him was a dangerous perfume.
She did not see his kukuhri-knife with its hilt of sinuous dark carven wood, but that did not mean he was not armed. Emma took her time approaching him, taking note of the various glances and exclamations from the Rostrand’s staff. Mikal touched her shoulder, a fleeting pressure, and she nodded.
Of course he is armed somehow. And you can tell he is of the Indus. I wonder if you will recognise more of him?
The question of how to deal with the screaming monkey was solved as soon as the creature sighted her. For it froze, its mouth wide open and sharp ivory teeth gleaming, its wide white-ringed eyes fixed on Emma.
No, not on her, but over her left shoulder. At Mikal.
Well, that is very interesting.
The sudden silence was almost shattering. The top edge of Rudyard’s broadsheet trembled slightly, and Emma came to a halt at a polite distance, eyeing the monkey. It was an odd little creature, and idly she wondered if Victrix would enjoy such a pet. The shrieking might even be a side benefit, to drown out her Consort’s gruff-grumbling displeasure. Did the expense of obtaining one balance the satisfaction to be had in its presentation?
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