The Iron Wyrm Affair: Bannon and Clare: Book 1 Page 12

  “Quite.” He stared at her boot toes, peeping at him from her ragged hem. If he concentrated on those, on how they rested against ankle-thick ash that behaved as ash should near them, he could ignore the rest for a short while.

  A soft, scraping sound. Metal, drawn from a sheath. “Go.” Mikal, tense now.

  “Take the mentath, I shall delay—”

  “No.” The Shield thought little of this notion. “They come to kill, my Prima. Take care near the prison; I shall be close.”

  “Mikal – oh, bloody hell.”

  Clare might have raised his eyebrows to hear such language from a woman, but he was too busy studying her boots. He could infer much from the way she stood, toes pointed slightly outward, the fractional favouring of her right foot meaning she was right-handed. She must dance well, and lightly. And she can move very softly if she wishes. Best to remember that.

  Her toes were whisked away as she turned, and her hand crept into the crook of his elbow. She tugged him along, and Clare allowed himself to be led.

  A low, grinding noise had begun, but Clare felt absolutely no desire to look up.

  “I did not think it would affect you this badly. Come, Mr Clare. It shall be better very rapidly; the closer we are to the gaols, the less stray sorcery there is about to trouble you.”

  “Jolly good.” His skull squeezed everything inside it, pressure building again. Every random angle he had measured since stepping into the Wark’s confines, every calculation of the speed and drift of cinders falling, refused to snap together into a pattern. What was that hideous grinding noise? It could not be his teeth, for all that his jaw was clenched tight.

  “Do not look up,” Miss Bannon said softly, hurrying him along. Their steps were muffled in the ash, now above ankle-high. How often did they clear the streets here? It had to be frequently, else anything living would choke to death.

  The terrible grating continued, and Miss Bannon muttered another highly colourful term. A hot, rank breath poured past them, tugging at Clare’s coat and hat, flapping the sorceress’s skirts. He did not raise his eyes, but his reasoning leapt ahead. The street. The street is moving. He could imagine it, from the ripples pouring through the field of cracked and rutted cobbles, walls receding and others pushed forward as the Wark reshaped itself. Miss Bannon exhaled quickly, a short sharp puff. “Tricksome,” she muttered. “Very tricksome.”

  His stomach revolved. His digestion was not its usual capable self. But as they hurried on, Miss Bannon’s boots now clicking faintly instead of muffled in ash, it settled remarkably. She was humming, a queer atonal melody looping on itself, and Clare found that the sound covered up the grinding tolerably well. It did not cover the choked cry from their left, or the rushing skitter of tiny metallic rodent feet. Miss Bannon’s grip on him tightened, but whether that was for his comfort or her own, he could not guess.

  The composition of the ash underfoot changed, slick and greasy instead of fine and dry, and Miss Bannon’s humming grew strained. The grinding suddenly ceased to their left; the sorceress lunged forward, dragging Clare along. A subliminal snap echoed through Clare’s entire body, the iron bands constricting his chest loosening slightly. He dared to glance up, and the grey bulk of Queensbench Gaol shimmered with pinpricks of light. The prison’s massive gate yawned, the gibbet in the small square before it crawling with blood-coloured charter charms. Their pace quickened, ashfall turning to hard hail-stinging pellets. A sharp turn to the left, and he understood by the sudden close rumble of traffic that they were skirting a thoroughfare. Darkness pressed close, gaslights muffled, and they plunged into a maze of debtors’ tenements. Another cry sounded to their right, ending with a clash of steel.

  Mikal. The Shield was doing his best to hold back their pursuers. But the shadows were alive with tiny crimson eyes now, and small twitching metallic noses.

  It was a dreadful time, he reflected, to wish Miss Bannon had more of Mikal’s type about. “Miss Bannon?” Clare whispered, as their pace quickened still more.

  “What?” Her tone could in no way be described as patient.

  “I rather believe we should run.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  We Use You Dreadfully

  Emma had rarely been so glad to see Londinium’s yellow fog tonguing the surface of buildings and swallowing carriages. Clare stumbled, blinking, as they emerged on Greenwitch Road, gaslamps hissing cheerfully to greet them. Behind them, the Wark boiled, stray cinders popping and sizzling as they pressed against the street’s boundary. Traffic had moved away from this side of Greenwitch, but the crowd very pointedly did not look to see what might have been ejected from the ashfall.

  The mentath stumbled again, went heavily to his knees, and proceeded to retch. Emma clamped a hand to her side, the freshly healed stab wound unhappy at rough treatment. Her corset, loose as it was, still cut intolerably. She shook her hair, spitting a clearing charm between her teeth, not caring if she would need the energy later. The dross of the Wark fell away in veils, grey matter shushing as the charm crackled it loose.

  It would take more than a minor sorcery to get the burnt-metal tang of Southwark out of her mouth, though.

  A clockrat spilled over the rim of the street, scuttling weakly as it fought the constraints of normal time. Emma’s hand jabbed forward, the golden ring gleaming – but Mikal appeared. A quick hard stamp, a scream of tortured metal, and a puff of vile-smelling crimson smoke; and the rat was merely a twisted scrap of metal and moth-eaten fur. The Shield’s eyes glowed furiously, and specks of blood and other fluids dewed his filthy coat. He looked little the worse for wear, despite being covered in Wark-ash.

  She shuddered. Clare retched again, feelingly. “A ranger!” he choked. “From thirty-three to eighty-nine per cent! It can only be explained in a range!”

  Dear God, is he seeking to analyse Mehitabel? Or the rats? “Clare.” She coughed, caught her breath. I think we may have survived. Perhaps. “Clare, cease. There are other problems requiring your attention.”

  “Prima.” Mikal’s hand on her shoulder, his fingers iron clamps. “Emma.”

  She swayed, but only slightly. “You’ve done well.” Well? More like “magnificently”. One Shield, a small army of Mehitabel’s flashboys, the rats – I cannot understand how we are not all dead.

  Either she had hurt the ironwyrm far more than she thought possible or likely, or Mehitabel had expected Emma to flee in a different direction – perhaps north, the way they had entered the Wark. Or – most chilling, but a prospect that must be considered – Mehitabel the Black let them go for some wyrm-twisting reason, even though Emma had used her truename.

  “Easy hunting.” Mikal’s mouth twisted up at one corner, a fey grimace. The ash gave him an old man’s hair, caught in his eyebrows, drifting on his shoulders. “Her troops are clumsy, and loud, and had to check every dark corner.”

  “What problems?” Clare managed, through another retch. “Never. Never again.”

  “Oh, we shall brave the Wark again, if duty demands it.” Emma let out a shaky breath. The idea of going home, throwing her corset into the grate, and watching it burn was extraordinarily satisfying. “But not tonight. At the moment, Mr Clare, we are on Greenwitch, and I wish you to help me find a hansom.”

  “Oh, excellent,” Clare moaned. “Wonderful. What the deuce for?”

  “To ride in, master of deduction.” Her tone was more tart than she intended. “We have news to deliver.”

  It was past midnight, and the stable smelled of hay and dry oily flanks. Restless movement in the capacious stalls, half-opened eyes, the perches overhead full of a rustling stillness.

  The gryphons were nervous. Iridescent plumage ruffled, spike feathers mantling; sharp amber or obsidian beaks clacked once or twice, breaking the quiet. Tawny or coal-dark flanks rippled with muscle, claws flexing in the darkness. Emma stood very still, carefully in the middle of the central passage, her skirts pulled close. Mikal was so near she could feel the heat of him.


  Clare peered over one stall door, his eyes wide. “Fascinating,” he breathed. “Head under wing. Indeed. The musculature is wonderful. Wonderful.”

  The gryphon stable was long and high, dim but not completely dark. Britannia’s proud steeds took sleepy notice, ruffling as they scented a Prime.

  Of all the meats gryphons preferred, they adored sorcery-seasoned best.

  Mikal’s hand rested on Emma’s shoulder, a welcome weight. A door at the far end opened, quietly, skirts rustling on a breath of golden rose scent, overlaid with violet-water. Emma stiffened. Clare did not straighten, leaning over the stall’s door like a child peering into a sweetshop.

  “Mr Clare,” the sorceress whispered. “Do stop that, sir. They are dangerous.”

  “Indeed they are.” A female voice, high and young, but with the stamp of absolute authority on each syllable. “No, my friend, do not courtesy. We know you must be uncomfortable here.”

  Emma sank down into a curtsey anyway, glad she had applied cleaning charms to all three of them. Mikal’s hand remained on her shoulder, and Clare hopped down from the stall door, hurriedly doffing his hat. “And who do we have the pleasure of— Dear God!” He lurched forward into a bow. “Your Majesty!”

  Alexandrina Victrix, the new Queen and Britannia’s current incarnation, pushed back her capacious sable-velvet hood. Her wide blue eyes danced merrily, but her mouth turned down at the corners. “Is this a mentath?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Emma forced her legs to straighten. “One of the few remaining in Londinium, Mr Archibald Clare.”

  “Your Majesty.” Clare had turned decidedly pink around his cheekbones, though the sorceress doubted any eyes but hers would see it.

  Emma’s mouth wanted to twitch, but the business at hand dispelled any amusement. “I bring grave news for Britannia.”

  “Since when do you not? You are Our stormcrow; We shall have Dulcie make you a mantle of black feathers.” The Queen’s young face could not stay solemn for long, but a shadow moved behind her eyes. “We jest. Do not think yourself undervalued.”

  “I would not presume,” Emma replied, a trifle stiffly. “Your Majesty … I have failed you. The core is missing.”

  The young woman was silent for a few moments, her dark hair – braided in twin loops over her ears, but slightly dishevelled, as if she had been called from sleep – glinting in the dimness. Even so, pearls hung from her tender ears, and a simple strand of pearls clasped her slim throat. The shadow in her eyes grew, and her young face changed by a crucial fraction. “Missing?”

  “I left it with Mehitabel.” Emma’s chin held itself firmly high. “It was taken with her consent. She gave me names.”

  “The dragons are involved? Most interesting.” The Queen tapped her lips with a slim white finger; under the cloak her red robe was patterned with gold-thread fleur-de-lis. The shadow of age and experience passed more clearly over her face, features changing and blurring like clay under water. The signet on her left hand flashed, its single charter symbol fluorescing briefly before returning to quiescence. “This was Our miscalculation, Prima. The Black Mistress has been true to her word before; it is … disconcerting to find she is no longer. What names were you given?”

  Some very uncomfortable ones. “I almost fear to say.”

  “Fear? You?” The Queen’s laugh echoed, an ageless ripple of amusement. “Unlikely. You wish more proof, and to finish this matter to your own satisfaction, if not Ours.”

  Emma almost winced. Britannia was old, and wise. The spirit of rule had seen many such as her come and go. She was the power of Empire; was a Prime, in the end, was merely a human servant. “She mentioned the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Llewellyn Gwynnfud, Lord Sellwyth. And another name. Vortis.”

  Feathers whispered like a wheatfield under summer wind as the gryphons took notice. Lambent eyes opened, lit with phosphorescent dust. Mikal’s fingers tightened, a silent bolstering.

  Yet a still small voice inside her whispered that Mehitabel’s flashboys had not chased them nearly enough. And Llewellyn, of course. How long will it be before he strangles you, as he did Crawford?

  “That name is … not well known to Us. But known enough.” Deep lines etched themselves on the Queen’s soft cheeks. The fine hairs on Emma’s arms and legs and nape rose, tingling as if she stood in the path of a Greater Work or even the unloosing of a Discipline. The gryphons stirred again, and a blue spark danced in the Queen’s pupils as the power that was Britannia woke further and peered out of her chosen vessel. “And the Chancellor, you say? Grayson?”

  “A wyrm’s word—” Emma began, hurriedly, but the Queen’s finger twitched and she swallowed the remainder of the sentence.

  “If he be innocent, he hath nothing to fear from thee, Prima. Thy judgement shall be thorough, but above all unerring.” The blue spark brightened, widening until it filled the Queen’s dilated pupils.

  A not-so-subtle reminder. Emma’s mouth was dry. She had, indeed, lied to Victrix about Crawford, and by extension, she had lied to Britannia. The ruling spirit of Empire had either chosen to believe Emma’s version of events in the round stone room, or – more likely – she guessed at the truth and reserved her judgement because Emma was useful. “I am uneasy, Your Majesty. Too much is unknown.”

  Britannia retreated like Tideturn along the Themis, a rushing weight felt more than heard. The Queen blinked, pulling her cloak closer. “Then you shall uncover it. And the mentath …”

  “Yesmum?” Clare drew himself up very straight indeed, his long, lanky frame poker-stiff. “Your Majesty?”

  The Queen actually smiled, becoming a girl again. “Is he trustworthy, Prima?”

  I am the wrong person to ask, my Queen. I do not even trust myself. “I think so. Certainly he faced the ironwyrm with much presence of mind.”

  “Then tell him everything. We cannot finish this without a mentath; it would seem Britannia is favoured in these as well as in sorceresses.” Victrix paused. “And Emma …”

  Her pulse sought to quicken; training pressed down upon Emma’s traitorous body. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  “Be careful. If the Chancellor is involved, Britannia’s protection may … wear thin, and Alberich Our Consort is not overfond of sorcerers. Do you understand?”

  Britannia rules, but we cannot move openly against a Chancellor of the Exchequer without compromising the Cabinet. Your lady mother would love to intrude another of her creatures to said Cabinet, and your Consort is not only low of influence but also dislikes sorcerers with an almost religious passion. So it is quiet, and deadly, and everything must be kept as smooth as possible. “Quite, Your Majesty.”

  And, not so incidentally, if any part of this becomes a scandal, I will be the one to feel its sting.

  “We use you dreadfully.” The Queen stepped back, a heavy rustle of velvet, and the gryphons murmured, a susurrus of sharp-edged feathers.

  “I am Britannia’s subject.” Stiffly, she sank into another curtsey. “I am to be used.”

  “I wish …” But the Queen shook her dark head, her braids swinging, and was gone. The open door let in a draught of garden-scented night, tinged with the violet-water she favoured, and closed softly.

  Clare’s mouth was suspiciously ajar. “That was the Queen.” He sounded stunned.

  Indeed it was. “We are wont to meet here, when occasion calls for it.” And God help her, but did she not sound proud? That pride, another of her besetting sins.

  “Little sorceress.” A rush of feathers ruffling; the voice was gravel-deep and quiet, but full of hurtful edges. An amber beak slid over the closest stall door, and Emma’s knees turned suspiciously weak.

  The eyes were deep darkness ringed with gold, an eagle’s stare in a head larger than her own torso. Feathered with ink-black, the powerful neck vanished into the stall’s dimness, and Mikal was somehow before her, his shoulders blocking the view of the gryphon as it clacked its beak once, a sound like lacquered blocks of dense wood slamming
together.

  “Close enough, skycousin,” Mikal said mildly.

  “Merely a mouthful.” The gryphon laughed. “But I am not so hungry tonight, even for magic. Listen.”

  Clare stepped forward, as if fascinated, staring at the gryphon’s left forelimb, which had crept up to the stall door and closed around the thick wood, burnished obsidian claws sinking in. “Fabulous musculature,” he muttered, and the gryphon clacked its beak again. It looked … amused, its eyes twin cruel glints.

  “Mr Clare.” A horrified whisper; Emma’s throat was dry. “They are carnivores.”

  “They look well fed.” The mentath cocked his head, and his lean face was alight with something suspiciously close to joy. “Yes, that beak is definitely from a bird of prey.”

  “Enough.” The gryphon’s head turned sidelong; he fixed Emma with one bright eye. “Sorceress. We know Vortis of old.” The claws tightened. “You go wyrm-hunting, then.”

  It was the gryphons’ ancient alliance with Britannia that had held the island stable, as the Age of Flame strangled on its own ash and the dragons returned to slumber. Or so it was told, and any study of the beasts was hazardous enough that very few sorcerers would attempt it. Emma stared at the creature’s beak – its sharp edges, the flickering of dim light over the deep-pitted nostrils. How the creatures spoke without lips fit for such an operation was a mystery indeed; gryphons were not dissected after their deaths.

  No, they ate their own. She suppressed a shudder, grateful for Mikal’s presence between her and the creature. “Perhaps. A wyrm’s word is a castle built on sand.”

  “Or air.” The proud head lowered in a terrifying approximation of a nod. “You should have more Shields, sorceress.”

  “I have as many as I require at the moment.” The ironwyrm would have had me, but for Mikal. And yet.

  “We are many, and you are a tempting morsel.” A laugh like boulders grinding. “But we are sleepy, too. You should go now.”