The Red Plague Affair: Bannon & Clare: Book Two Read online

  “Guten Morgen, Fräulein.” Sig’s broad beaming smile was a flag. “Lovely, lovely. I bring Archie his mail, and supplies!”

  “Thank you, Mr Baerbarth.” Her small answering smile was a ghost of itself. “Ludovico, good morning. Mikal, have you had breakfast?”

  “No.” The Shield’s face was a thundercloud. “I was too busy worrying for my Prima.”

  “Then by all means, please partake. I shall require you in readiness very shortly. Mr Clare? I have some rather—”

  He had the most illogical desire to take her to task. “Have you had breakfast, Miss Bannon?”

  The sorceress paused, her head tilted and the drops of rain caught on her dress each glimmering a slightly different shade. “No,” she admitted, finally. “I have not. There were other matters to attend to.” And there still are, her tone said, and that is that.

  “I would take it as a kindness if you would join me,” Clare persisted. “I would also take it as a kindness if you accept my services in finding this Mr Morris and bringing him to Her Majesty, as I am now quite intrigued. It is a fascinating puzzle.”

  She considered him, and he perceived how carefully Mikal was observing this interchange. Valentinelli, his back to the wall, had his eyebrows drawn together and one hand held oddly low at his side. There was a spark in the Neapolitan’s gaze Clare had not seen in a long while – rather like a cat’s expression as it crouches before a mouse-hole.

  “Very well.” Miss Bannon crossed the room with a determined air, her dainty boots click-tapping with their accustomed crispness. He had, Clare reflected, grown quite fond of that sound. “Do sit, gentlemen. Let us have a civilised moment before the day begins.”

  Mikal followed her, and Valentinelli peeled himself from the wall. Was it… yes, it was. The Neapolitan appeared slightly disappointed, of all things. What had he expected the sorceress to do?

  The letter was a weight in Clare’s pocket. To be caught with two items deserving his faculties was an unexpected gift, and as he settled to breakfast, Miss Bannon sinking gracefully into the chair a silently fuming Mikal held for her, he allowed himself a moment of quiet gloating.

  Miss Bannon’s next words, however, gave him much more to think upon.

  “As a matter of fact, Mr Clare, I had hoped to see you before I left the house again. Do you think I might borrow dear Ludo from your service? Temporarily, of course.”

  “I stand right here, strega. You could ask me.” Ludovico actually bridled, dropping into a wicker chair with a grunt that was only partly theatrical.

  “Mr Clare is your employer. Please, do see if you can break another piece of furniture, I rather had the idea of replacing the entire house.”

  “If you like, Ludo break everything.” His accent had thickened, and he looked well on his way to as foul a temper as Mikal.

  “That will not be necessary, but thank you. I require you for something different today. We shall be visiting a certain sorcerer, and perhaps he will want… convincing, to give us whatever information he possesses.” The smile that settled over her face was chilling in its good-humoured savagery, as unguarded an expression as Clare had ever seen. “And you are so very good at convincing, my bastarde assassino.”

  A pained silence descended on the breakfast table. Even Sigmund had ceased his chewing, staring at the sorceress.

  Clare coughed, clearing his throat. “Yes, well. Quite. Some tea, Miss Bannon?”

  The whip crackled, the matched black clockhorses with their ribbon-braided manes hopped, and Miss Bannon’s carriage jolted onto Brooke Street. The sorceress sat bolt-upright on the hard red cushions, her right index finger tapping occasionally as she stared out of the window, her face set and bloodless.

  “Who is this sorcerer?” Clare settled himself more securely – Valentinelli, jostled next to him, looked ill at ease with the sudden motion. Even the best of carriages jolted one about unmercifully, especially when its owner had told her coachman, quickly, please.

  Said coachman, Harthell, a wizened nut of a man, was as adept at sailing a carriage through traffic as an experienced sempstress at threading needles. Shouts and curses outside, the carriage yawed alarmingly, then righted itself as the whip cracked again.

  “Hm?” She stirred slightly, her hands decorously laid in her black-clad lap. The breath of smoke and roasting on her had faded, and her bergamot perfume was wearing through. It was easy to deduce she had consigned Eli’s body to some form of flame; perhaps it was traditional to do so? Or perhaps it was a hygienic measure? “Oh. His name is Copperpot. He is a Master Alterator; I was at the Collegia this morning and took the liberty of checking the Grand Registry. His address was not quite correct, but there were enough traces at his former residence for me to acquire the location of his new domicile, which Harthell is following a tracer towards. It is quite possible there will be… unpleasantness.”

  Oh dear. “Dare I ask what manner of unpleasantness?”

  “The usual manner, when we are hunting a conspiracy. The quarter I received information from about Mr Morris had some dark hints, and he has quit his hotel. Perhaps he returned to his employment overseas, the better to avoid any further questioning.”

  “Ah.” Clare absorbed this. “So, blood, screaming, and sorcery. And Signor Valentinelli here…”

  “Is to convince the sorcerer to tell all he knows.” Valentinelli’s grin was wolfish. He now looked supremely happy, even jolted and tossed as they were. “And even things he does not think he know, he will tell.”

  “Quite. I do not wish him dead until he has told all he knows, and I do not wish to question his shade, as such an operation takes precious time we may not have.” Her lips compressed, and Clare’s faculties woke and stretched more fully, inferences from her choice of words turning the picture several shades darker and more complex. “There are other considerations, as well.”

  Oh, you are never boring, my dear Emma. “I see.”

  “Good. By the way, Clare, you did not show dear little Sigmund the items from Mr Morris’s home, did you?”

  “Of course not. Sig would be of no use in… ah. I see.”

  “Precisely.” Her hands clasped each other now, the lace digging and scratching as her fingers tensed, and she had gone quite pale. “I believe the fewer people who know of this affair, even in our small circle, the better.”

  “Good heavens.” He could feel the blood draining from his own cheeks. “Surely you don’t think Sigmund—”

  “Of course not.” Irritated now, she made a small gesture, easing her shoulders inside her dress, leaning into the rattling turn. “I merely wish him to be… safe. He did not see Eli’s… well. We witnessed an event that no doubt has grave consequences. Mr Baerbarth does not need to be party to those consequences.” Another pause. “Ah. We have arrived. Come, gentlemen.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Led to Regret

  Timothy Copperpot, Master Alterator and possessor of a very fine flat overlooking Canthill Square, was at home. Not only that, but he welcomed their visit with almost unbecoming enthusiasm. His narrow, nervous face bore a rather startling resemblance to a terrier’s, since his whiskers were cut to resemble that animal’s headshape.

  “I say! Delighted! Charmed!” He was not sweating, and did not seem in the least put out that they had arrived unannounced. “Was just about to leave for the workshop, but would much rather a visit with another of the ætheric brethren. Tea? Something stronger?”

  “Tea would be lovely, thank you.” This cannot be so simple.

  He had two Shields – even a low-level Alterator would need them for handling overflow if an Alteration went wrong or began twisting, the ætheric charge warping under concentrated irrationality. The idea of marrying flesh to metal was faintly distasteful, even if Emma could see the financial benefits available to those who could master the requisite Transubstantiation exercises. And Copperpot was no back-alley metalmonger; his cloth was fine and his flat was a wide, airy, pleasant one, on the third floor.
His Shields – one dark, one fair – were neatly dressed, and they both eyed Mikal with a fair amount of apprehension.

  Which meant they ignored Valentinelli, since the Neapolitan did quite a lovely job of slouching along behind Mr Clare, whose mournful basset face had brightened considerably as he glanced about the sitting room.

  The curtains were pulled back, the coal fire built up and quite pleasant, the wallpaper a soothing blue and the wainscoting clean. Copperpot’s taste ran to brass and a touch or two of the Indus, and Emma’s gorge rose hotly, her breakfast staging a revolt. She quelled it with an effort, taking the seat Copperpot indicated with a smile and murmured thanks.

  “Harry, old boy, do bring some tea, and the savouries! Had a spot of brekkie, of course, but never say no to more.” The Alterator’s delight seemed entirely unfeigned; to Sight he was a cheerful bubbling of low red, tang-tasting of the molten metal he charmed on a daily basis. The blond Shield glanced again at Mikal and hurried out of the room. Valentinelli hovered behind Clare, the very picture of a solicitous manservant to a not-quite-elderly-but-no-longer-young gent.

  “Quite. I appreciate your hospitality.” She tilted her head slightly as Clare settled in an easy-chair, Copperpot dropping into what must be his accustomed seat near the grate. “I do beg your pardon for the impoliteness, but I must come straight to the point.”

  “Oh, please do, then. Happy to help in any way, Prima! You have some work that needs doing, a spot of Alteration, or…?”

  “I wish it were so simple. I must ask you about a certain genius, a physicker, Mr John Morris…” She left it open-ended. His response would tell her a great deal.

  “Morrie? Oh, yes. Bit of a prickly chap. Had me make him lovely bits of metal and glass. Canisters, according to a set of drawings. Wonderful things, really. Tricky work, had to stand a great deal of pressure inside without leaking. Did he recommend me?”

  You poor man. “He did, very highly.” She settled her hands carefully in her lap. The dark Shield was not watching her. His attention was wholly occupied with Mikal. Clare leaned forward, his narrow nostrils flaring as his gaze roved every surface in the room. “How is his holiday progressing?”

  “Saw him off to Dover this morning, matter of fact. A Continental tour, just the thing for his nerves. Rather raw, poor Morrie.”

  Dover? “He works too hard,” she murmured. “Dover? I thought he was to be in town longer.”

  “No, no, he’d finished his masterpiece, he said. Saw him off at the station; made certain the canisters were loaded correctly and all. Taking two of them along, to show the Crowned Heads of Europe. Quite the thing, maybe even a patent!”

  “Your maker’s mark on the brass fittings,” Clare interjected, suddenly. “The crowned cauldron.”

  “Too right!” The terrier-man beamed with pride. His fingertips rubbed together, and ætheric sparks crackled. “You’ve seen them, then? Pressurised canisters. A mixture of fluid and air, made into a fine mist – but it couldn’t be steam. It couldn’t be heated. Quite a puzzle, but Copperpot never gives up.” He waved one finger, wagging as if to nag an invisible child. “I told him, I would make him a thousand once we found the right design!”

  “Did you?” Clare leaned forward, and Emma could have cheerfully cursed him. She did not wish the quarry alerted just yet.

  “No. Merely twelve, but the right design! Two sent overseas, with him. He said he’d show the remaining ten in Londinium, an Exhibition, he said, but I don’t know…” Copperpot’s smile faltered. He glanced nervously at Emma. “I say, what is it you’re after, Prima? More than willing to help, but—”

  “Master Sorcerer Copperpot.” Emma’s spine was rigid. An onlooker would not have been able to tell how her heart, traitorous thing that it was, had begun to ache. The chunk of amber at her throat warmed. “I regret this, I truly do.”

  Mikal moved. The dark Shield went down with the greenwood crack of a neck breaking, a sound that never failed to make Emma’s heart cringe within her. Clare let out a sharp yell, Valentinelli was a blur of motion, and in short order the blond Shield, alerted too late, was down on the carpeting with Mikal’s fingers at his throat. He had burst through the door, no doubt to save his master – who sat very still, with the edge of a knifeblade to his carotid and Valentinelli breathing in his ear.

  “Bastarde,” the Neapolitan whispered. “Move, or cast one of your filthy sorceries, I slit your throat.”

  “I advise you to believe him.” Emma rose. Her skirts made a low sweet sound, and the curtains, fluttering, closed themselves without the benefit of hands. A Master Sorcerer was no match for a Prime, but still, caution was required. And the morning’s light should not shine on this work. The sudden gloom was a balm to her sensitised eyes. “Now, Timothy – may I address you as such? Thank you. Timothy, Mr Clare and I require you to be absolutely truthful. And if you are absolutely truthful, you will survive this encounter.”

  It pained her to lie, but the man’s face had turned cheesy-pale. He would be of absolutely no use if he knew the likely outcome of the morning’s visit.

  Britannia wished Morris taken alive, but she had said nothing about this man. And Emma was of the opinion that leaving behind anyone to be questioned was rather a bad idea at this juncture. It was necessary, she reminded herself, because she did not know if Kim Rudyard had left for his own part of the globe… or if he was still in Londinium, with a plan that hinged on some canisters and a certain physicker.

  Clare glanced at her, but he did not, thank God, give voice to his plain certainty that she was being misleading.

  “Mr Clare?” She kept her tone level. “Please question him thoroughly. I hope you don’t mind if I interject every so often? Oh, but before you begin, one small thing…”

  Mikal’s fingers clenched. The crunch of cartilage collapsing was very loud in the hush. Emma’s low hummed note caught the sound, wrapping the flat in a smothering veil.

  It wouldn’t do to have the neighbours inconvenienced.

  The dark Shield suffocated, his heels drumming the floor, and Mikal glanced up. His gaze, yellow as the Ganges-dust of Indus, met hers.

  Now that she had the attention of every man in the room, the business could begin. “What time did Mr Morris leave for Dover? And do tell me, what ship was he to board?”

  Copperpot’s eyes rolled. He was sweating now, and Valentinelli’s hand was steady. The Neapolitan watched her too, his smile as tender as a lover’s.

  Ludo enjoyed this sort of thing far more than was quite right.

  Timothy did tell them all he knew – which was quite a bit more than she had expected. And quite possibly, far more than the Alterator knew he knew. Clare grew paler and more agitated with each raft of seemingly innocuous or hopelessly complex questions, and Copperpot’s visible hope that he would leave this flat later whole and breathing was uncomfortable to witness.

  If you had a conscience, Bannon, it might well be uneasy. Rudyard, damn him, had been utterly correct.

  Clare looked rather green. His glance studiously avoided the stained armchair before the low-burning coal in the grate. “Are you familiar with the Pathogenic Theory?”

  “Arrange it… yes, that will do.” Emma shook her head. The silence cloaking the flat was well-laid; she checked its charter knots one more time, humming a sustained note that turned into the burring un-noise of live sorcery as she tweaked its contours, delicately, rather as she would smooth a dress’s wayward fold. “No. I am not familiar, Clare.”

  “Illness – or at least, some illnesses… good God, man, did you have to do that to his hands?” The mentath shifted uncomfortably, tugging at his jacket and reaching for his pocket. His fingers brushed the material, then returned to the chair arms.

  “When Ludo asks, he tell the truth.” The Neapolitan settled the corpse’s legs. “Ask la strega, she know.”

  “I am rather occupied at the moment.” Emma sighed. Three bodies; she would have to expend rather more ætheric force than she liked tidying this
mess up. “Do go on, Clare. Pathogenic theory? Is this Science?” For if it were a branch of sorcery, we would not be discussing it thus.

  “There are beings invisible to the naked eye that may cause some illnesses. Science has suspected for a great while, but required proof – optics, and in particular, a certain Dutchman gave us the means of—”

  “Do not become distracted. Perhaps you should wait in the carriage.” There was rather a large bloodstain. “Put the Shields… yes, thank you, Mikal.”

  Mikal crouched easily over the bodies, his hands loose but his jaw tight. He did not question, but he was far too tense for her to believe the danger had passed.

  “I am not distracted. Was it truly necessary, Miss Bannon?”

  Damn the man. “Was Eli’s death necessary, sir? Do not ask such silly, useless questions.” The words had altogether far more snap than she was accustomed to hearing in her own voice. “We are dealing with some manner of poison, in canisters that will spray it in a fine mist. It must have been a virulent one.”

  “Perhaps not poison. The trouble taken to keep the temperature of the mist so rigidly controlled rather speaks against it. And poison does not spread. It is not a genius of Biology’s likely method.” As well as green, the mentath was decidedly pale. “Tiny organisms, Miss Bannon, are a possibility. The canisters are only a first step. No doubt the mist produced, drawn into the lungs… It would make precious little sense unless this Morris was certain the infection would spread.”

  Emma’s hands dropped. She regarded him, the curious sensation of clicking inside her head as a piece of the puzzle fitted into place turning her to ice.

  Small things, Rudyard had sneered. Go and see what you can find.

  “Dear God. A weapon…” She halted herself with an effort. Her lips were numb. In the closely packed streets of Londinium, such an infection could spread with hellish speed. And if its result was what Eli had suffered… “Eli… how…?”