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

  Chapter Six

  One of Our Own

  It was an occasion of little pomp, but great publicity. “You may approach.” Alexandrina Victrix, Britannia’s chosen vessel, ruler of the Isles and Empress of Indus, sat straight-backed on her gem-laden throne, the Stone of Scorn underneath one leg glowing soft silver. The hexagonal Throne Room, its vast glass ceiling full of rainy Londinium mornlight, was nevertheless full of shadowed corners behind and between marble columns, and in one such corner was a deeper shadow.

  Emma held the glamour soft and still, though an alert observer would catch any movement she made, or perhaps a gleam from her jewellery. True invisibility was difficult and painfully draining, but simply blending into shadow was so easy as to be childishly entertaining. Mikal was a soft-breathing warmth at her back, and Eli would be in the gallery above, moving silent as a fish in deep water.

  He hunted best while drifting.

  The Queen’s dark hair frothed in ringlets near her ears, the back put up as a married woman’s should be, and her soft face blurred like clay under running water. Her eyes had turned infinitely dark, tiny speckles of starlight in their depths as the ruling spirit of the Isle woke slightly and peered out of its vessel. The Queen’s youthful figure had thickened, pregnancy swelling the outline of the girl Emma Bannon had sworn service to.

  That oath was private and unspoken, and Emma was of the secret opinion that Britannia, as ageless and wise as She was, did not quite comprehend the nature of the sorceress’s commitment.

  Perhaps it was for the best. What queen would wish to know of the depths of service one born in the gutters could sink to?

  Alberich, Prince and Consort, stood to the Queen’s right, instead of using the smaller chair he was wont to occupy during interminable receptions or state business. The Consort, an aristocrat of Saxon-Kolbe, was a fine figure of a man with a lovely moustache and a dashing mien in the uniform he affected, but he took a dim view of sorcery in general and his influence upon Victrix, while of the moderating variety, was also… uncertain.

  He, Emma thought, as she did every time she glimpsed him, bears watching.

  There were few of the elect in the Throne Room for this event, but at least two of them – Constance, Lady Ripley (christened “Constant, Lady Gossip” by the broad-sheets) and the red-jacketed, portly Earl of Dornant-Burgh – could be counted to carry tales. That was their function, and Emma’s shoulders were cable-tight under blue satin.

  There, approaching the throne in a wide-sweeping formal dress of rose-coloured silk, was the reason for this concern: the Queen’s formidable mother, the Duchess of Kent.

  She was still a handsome woman, though growing much stouter as the years passed. An examination of her aquiline but pleasing face with its open, frank expression would lead one to believe her of a light and frivolous disposition, if one was extraordinarily stupid. There were plenty who ascribed to the view that the Duchess had been easily led by her comptroller Conroy into keeping Victrix under a stifling System of rules and etiquette that not so incidentally never allowed her contact with those her mother deemed unsuitable; others thought the Duchess’s raising of the princess and later heir-presumptive merely suffered from a mother’s natural but overly indulged desire to shield her child from all harm, real or imagined.

  The truth perhaps lay somewhere between the two, on an island of ambition shrouded with syrup-sentiment and a frustrated will to rule. The Duchess would have made a fine prince of some foreign country, had she been chosen as a vessel… or a trouble indeed, if born a man.

  Emma eyed the Duchess’s stiff posture as the mother of the Queen made the merest courtesy demanded of a sovereign’s family member. The necklace the woman wore, Emma decided, was far too gaudy to be anything but real gems; she was not wearing paste yet, this blue-blooded and cold-calculating princess. Despite Conroy’s “management” of her estates and benefices, that was.

  Victrix sat, utterly inhumanly still, only her eyes showing that Britannia was examining the woman who had given birth to her vessel, and examining her closely.

  The sorceress’s fingers tightened. The cameo at her throat warmed, ætheric force held in the piece responding to her mood. It would be so easy to strike the Duchess down, and she could even beg Victrix’s forgiveness afterwards. Not every conspiracy threatening Victrix’s rule had its origins in the Duchess’s desire to bring her daughter back under her sway, true.

  But the ones that did were… most troubling. There had been a certain affair involving a tower in Wales, a slumbering wyrm, and an army of unsleeping metal soldiers some time ago. It had also involved a Sorcerer Prime, and Emma’s unease heightened another notch.

  She would think of Llewellyn now, wouldn’t she? There was a warm weight in her chest that grew a trifle heavier when she did. It was not the Stone that had been her private recompense for the affair, she had decided. Perhaps it was merely the consciousness of how close he had come to succeeding? Each separate part of that conspiracy had been working to different ends, but Llewellyn Gwynnfud’s envisioned end had put the other parties to shame in sheer flamboyance and scope.

  He would have been delighted to know she thought as much.

  Victrix will not take it kindly if I kill her mother, no matter what the woman has done. And no matter if Britannia roundly approves.

  Seen from this angle, the Duchess’s beauty had faded considerably since her youth. Yet her eyebrows were the same high proud arches, and the long nose and decided chin were balanced by good cheekbones. A handsome woman, still.

  Handsome enough to keep a lover, perhaps. Or her estates were certainly attractive enough to gain some attention.

  Those in attendance had already noted that Conroy, normally his mistress’s squire and shadow, was not present. If the pale-eyed, silk-voiced comptroller had decided to slip into the gallery to witness this exchange, Eli would neatly collar him… and Emma Bannon would have a small sharp chat with the man.

  This was not Victrix’s wish, but Emma had privately decided Sir John Conroy had become far too dangerous to wait upon handling. Perhaps it was arrogance on her part, to see so clearly a danger Victrix underestimated, and to set herself to drawing its venom. Or perhaps it was merely her duty. The two blurred together distressingly easily.

  “Your Majesty.” The Queen’s mother repeated her courtesy, but more deeply. “It gladdens my heart to see my daughter.”

  Her words had an edge that only a sorceress, a lifelong student of tone and cadence and what remains unspoken, might hear.

  No, that was not quite precise. It was also the tone a mother could use to chastise a grown child, treacle-sweet but loaded with private significance.

  Emma’s fingers twitched. At least Melbourne, nasty skinflint that he was, had given the young Queen her first taste of what passed for the freedom of rule. Victrix still believed most things possible, most things available, instead of seeing choice and circumstance narrow about her like a lunatic’s canvas jacket.

  Victrix raised her chin slightly. “Madam.” Today she wore the Little Crown, its diamonds sparking as Britannia’s presence spilled through her skin; she was not formally in state even though enthroned. To sit in state would have accorded the Duchess too much importance. At least Victrix had agreed when Emma made that observation. “We greet you.”

  We. Victrix hiding behind Britannia, or a sign that the ruling spirit was unwilling to take her gaze from a potential danger?

  The Duchess’s smile faltered slightly. “I would that I saw you more frequently, my dearest. But you have such important matters to attend to.”

  Emma was hard put to stifle a gasp. To speak so familiarly to Britannia might have earned one a spell in the Tower in less civilised days.

  Victrix’s head tilted slightly to the side, her features shifting imperceptibly. To see the sweet face of a married-but-still-young woman age so rapidly, Britannia filling her vessel as the Themis filled its cold bed, was enough to send a chill through even the stoutest hear
t.

  “Important matters.” Victrix’s fingers tapped the throne’s arm, precisely once. She did not move to cover her belly with a protective hand, but it may have been very close. Rings glittered, scintillating not with ætheric force as Emma’s jewellery might, but with a different brand of power. “Have you ever been to Wales, dear Mama?”

  Emma’s pulse beat high and hard in her throat. She had not expected this.

  “Wales?” To her credit, the Duchess sounded confused.

  “Dinas Emrys. A property of the house of Gwynnfud, or Sellwyth if you prefer their title.” Victrix was pale now, and the depth of Britannia in her star-laden eyes spread, a haze of indigo fanning from the corners. Alberich made a restless movement, as if he longed to touch the Queen’s shoulder, his white-gloved hand halting in mid-air and dropping back to rest at his side.

  Good. If he did not respect her, we would have even more trouble. Respect was not quite enough, though. It would, she thought, do the Consort no end of good to outright fear his wife.

  Sometimes a man’s fear was a woman’s only defence.

  The Duchess was pale too. The lace of her cap quivered on either side of her face – she had affected a truly matronly headgear for the occasion. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure, my dearest.” Not so vivacious now.

  “I have not either, of late.” Victrix’s gaze swung away, roving over the few of the peerage who remained in the room – and her Chancellor of the Exchequer, Lord Craighley. The last Chancellor but one, Grayson, had vanished in mysterious circumstances; some whispered of embezzlement and of a retreat to the Continent. Others, very softly, whispered of sorcery.

  It was Emma Bannon who saw to it they did not whisper overly loudly, or for very long. Sometimes it did not do to have the truth bruited about.

  “I have not either,” Victrix repeated, her tone sharpening. “But I think upon it often, Mother. The Sellwyths were treacherous worms of old, were they not?”

  The Duchess of Kent trembled. It took a sharp eye to see, but Emma Bannon’s gaze was indeed pointed, and she saw the quiver in the older woman’s skirts. Very well done, Your Majesty.

  “Alexandrina…” The Duchess’s lips shaped a bloodless whisper.

  “You may remove yourself from Our sight, Duchess.” Victrix’s tone took on new weight, and the shadows in the Throne Room thickened. Each gem on her chair or her person was a point of hurtful brilliance. “Thou’rt confirmed in thy titles and estates. But We shall not suffer thee in Our presence.”

  Emma loosened her fists, deliberately, one finger at a time. Had she truly doubted Victrix’s ability to handle this confrontation? And so neatly, too.

  The Duchess, to give her credit, paid a most steady courtesy to Britannia. It was odd – the pale drawn look she wore now suited her, lending a shadow of slender youth to her features. Her dark eyes burned as live coals, and Emma wished she were more visible, so she could catch the lady’s gaze. It was no doubt overweening pride… but she wished the Duchess knew she was witnessing this embarrassment.

  The Queen’s mother took the prescribed three steps backwards, her skirts swaying drunkenly. The shadow of Britannia retreated, pearly rain-washed morning light filling the vast glass-roofed expanse again. Victrix’s gaze was no longer starred with the speckles of infinite night. No, it was human again, and her eyes were dark with very human pain.

  “Mother,” she said, suddenly and very clearly. “I am reconciled to thee. But We are not.”

  Well, Lady Gossip and Lord Tale-A-Plenty will spread that far and wide. Good.

  Victrix rose, and there was a great rustling as all courtesied or bowed, and the Queen swept from the Throne Room on her Consort’s arm. He murmured something to her, and Victrix’s pained sigh was audible in the heavy silence.

  Emma found herself smiling. It was, she suspected, not a pleasant smile, and she composed her features before allowing the glamour to fold itself away. There was no reason to remain in shadow now. It was against the spirit of Victrix’s commands, and yet…

  She needn’t have bothered. The Duchess stalked from the Throne Room with her head held high, amid a wash of tittering whispers and buzzes. The morning’s event would be digested and re-chewed in drawing rooms around Londinium by lunchtime, and halfway across the Continent by supper. Those who paid court to Kent, believing she had some influence, would fall away.

  This will only make her next gambit more subtle and hence, possibly more dangerous. And where is her hangman? Is he about?

  It was unlike Conroy to let an opportunity pass, and Emma had made certain that a delicate insinuation of the restoration of royal favour had dropped in his ear – and thus in the Duchess’s. An effective feint, and satisfaction was had.

  But he had not shown, which made the satisfaction tarnish slightly.

  A tingle ran along her nerves. She raised her chin slightly, her gaze taking in the entire columned expanse of the Throne Room in one sweep. The brush of ætheric force retreated hastily, and her attention snagged on the opposite side of the room, where a gleam pierced another shadowed corner.

  Another player, or merely an onlooker? Interesting. She was now, after witnessing this exchange, to attend the Queen in private. There were other matters than a mother put firmly in her place requiring the attention of a Sorceress Prime in Britannia’s service. Still, she lingered, allowing herself to become still and receptive, her consciousness dilating.

  It was no use. The other sorcerer had felt her attention shift, and was already gone. There was a side door close by, a twin to the one Emma stood near, and probably chosen for the very same reason she had selected this spot.

  Something about such precaution did not quite sit well.

  Bother. It mattered little; if there were another player at the table, soon enough he – or she – would slip and show a hand. Emma shelved the question and gathered her skirts, Mikal’s step leaf-light behind her as she set a course for the door.

  With a murmur of thanks, Emma lowered herself into the wide, heavy chair Victrix indicated with a wave of one jewelled hand.

  “Do sit, Miss Bannon, that was quite…” Quite what, the Queen paused, as if unable to just yet define. Now, she clasped her hands over her rounded belly, wincing slightly. She had just begun to show, and so soon after the last. At least there was no shortage of prospective heirs, though Britannia had shown little interest in any of them to date. “Quite…”

  Uncomfortable? Liberating, and yet terrifying? I can only imagine. Emma contented herself with a simple, “Thank you, Your Majesty.” After all, I have no mother or father, merely the Collegia. I cannot imagine.

  The Prince Consort, his features pale and mournful behind the fine moustache, busied himself at a rather graceless mahogany sideboard. The hefty apple-figured drapes, overstuffed brocaded sophas and spindly gilt chairs were overdone, rather in the manner of a royal idea of what a respectable country gentleman’s drawing room would contain, albeit envisioned without any proper visit to such a space to discern its peculiarities.

  In short, it was very much like the doomed Queen Marette Antoinette’s faux farm-village. The ruling spirit of France had not recovered from the bloody end its last vessel had undergone, and there were whispers that the freebooters first of the Révolution and then of the thrice-damned Corsican had slaughtered every child of the royal lines, both ancillary and direct, to keep Gallica from rising again.

  Such things could happen without those strong, cunning, and yes, brutal enough to safeguard the vessel’s person. No doubt another ruling spirit would rise, or Gallica would resurface eventually.

  There were even whispers that some of the Corsican’s line were showing… signs. Emma was still undecided whether judicious assassination should be suggested – oh, very delicately indeed. Victrix had certain regrettable qualms that would hopefully fade with the passage of time – and the lessons of ruling an Empire.

  A weakened France was a help to Britannia, but not overly weak. Used as a shield and bala
nced against the Germans, not to mention Austro-Angary, she was a useful tool. A Gallican vessel sympathetic – or beholden – to Britannia, within reason, was an asset to be considered and planned for.

  Emma folded her hands sedately. Victrix’s long glittering earrings trembled as their wearer shook, and the sorceress averted her eyes, studying the curtains, counting the gold threads worked in stylised apple-shapes. The room was windowless, the drapes only softening bare stone walls. It was an apt metaphor for the illusion of absolute power. Trammelled in a stone cube, the ruling spirit of an Empire the sun never set upon was no more than a daughter reeling with helpless frustration and quite possibly a measure of despair.

  Even the meanest of Britannia’s servants were free to do things their monarch could not.

  That is a dangerous thought. Turn your attention aside. Is it safe here? In the very bowels of Buckingham Palace, they could be reasonably certain of little physical threat.

  Privacy was another issue entirely. Especially with a pair of unfriendly ears in the room.

  Oh, the Prince Consort was not unfriendly to Victrix. Not at all. His animosity, tinged lemon-yellow and very visible to Sight, was directed to another quarter entirely.

  “That went well.” Victrix, softly. The Little Crown still perched, winking, atop her dark hair. She was pale, and her eyes were merely, humanly dark. “Rather well indeed.”

  Emma nodded. “Yesmum.” Equally soft, her tone conciliatory and soothing as possible. She continued her examination of the drapes, the gaslamps hissing softly and their flames much better for her sensitive eyes than harsh sunlight.

  “We think…” But the Queen did not continue. Alberich brought her a small glass – vitae, Emma discerned, smelling of lavender and threatening to unsettle her stomach. How anyone could drink that was beyond her. But it was a lady’s draught, as popular now as ratafia had been during the time of the Mad Georgeth and his regent son.

  Had Britannia felt the echo of her chosen vessel’s madness? Did such a thing leach into the ruling spirit? Those she ruled might never know, and never know why Britannia chose not to leave Georgeth until the bitter end. Who were they to question the spirit of the Isles?