The Ripper Affair (Bannon and Clare) Read online

  The coffin, lowering into the earth. The bright spatter of blood, and Miss Bannon not even glancing in his direction. Had he thought her indifferent to Ludovico’s… passing?

  Call it what it is. Death.

  The roaring in his ears intensified. It took actual physical effort to think through the wall of sound.

  “Clare?” Where had Miss Bannon acquired this new, tentative tone? “Are you well?”

  I am not at all well, thank you. “Quite,” he managed, through gritted teeth. “You made certain of that, did you not?”

  It was unjustified, and the slight stiffening of Miss Bannon’s shoulders told him the dart had hit true. She turned her head slightly, as if to gaze out the carriage window. Her left hand had become a fist.

  “Yes.” Softly. “I did.”

  Nothing else was said as they inched homeward, and when the familiar clatter of iron-shod mechanical hooves on the echoing cobbled lane leading into the carriageyard resounded she began gathering her skirts. She wore very deep mourning, and if she did not weep and wail as a woman might be expected to, perhaps it was because she was not inclined to such a display.

  Or perhaps she felt a loss too profoundly to risk making any further comment upon it.

  He was given no time to remark upon this observation, for as soon as the carriage halted she reached for the door, and it flung itself open as if kicked. There was Mikal, his lean dark face set, breathing deeply but with no difficulty. Whatever method he used to move as quickly as a carriage–granted, Londinium’s streets were usually congested enough to render that no great trick, but still–Clare had not yet deciphered, even after all this time.

  She accepted the Shield’s hand as she left the carriage, and Clare found himself in the position of having behaved in a most ungentlemanlike manner, again.

  What is the matter with me? Feeling or no, there was hardly any excuse for treating a lady so.

  Of course, if what he suspected of Miss Bannon’s origins was correct, she was not of a quality to feel the lack of such treatment.

  She is of a quality of character you have witnessed several times, and you are behaving abominably.

  Clare climbed from the carriage as an old man would, despite the fact that he did not feel in the least physically decrepit. No, the problem lay within the confines of his skull.

  She had assured him there would be no dimming of his mental abilities. Very kind of her.

  Cease this nonsense. His shoes struck the cobbles, swept twice daily by the disfigured stable-boy, and the jarring all through him dislodged the roaring in his ears for a moment.

  Miss Bannon swept ahead, her head bowed as if walking into a heavy wind. Mikal had not followed. Instead, the Shield paused, watching the black-veiled figure whose faltering steps clicked softly.

  Then his head turned, with slow terrible grace, and he examined Clare from top to toe. Weak sunlight picked out the nap of the black velvet he wore instead of his usual olive-green–perhaps because Miss Bannon had insisted. The Shield’s opinion of Valentinelli had always seemed to hover about the edges of condescension mixed with outright distrust, and Clare had finally decided it was Miss Bannon’s fondness for the assassin that…

  The chain of logic drifted away, for Mikal’s tone was quiet, pleasant, and chilling. “Mentath.” A slight pause, during which Miss Bannon disappeared through the side-door. “I do not know what has passed between you and my Prima.”

  I suspect that is a very good thing. “No?”

  A ghost of a smile curled up one corner of the Shield’s mouth, and for an instant it seemed–no, it was. His pupils flickered into a different shape.

  Clare all but reeled back against the carriage’s side. The edge of his calf struck the step, a deep bruising blow. No more irrational wonders for today, please. I am quite finished.

  “No, sir, I do not.” The honorific escaped on a long hiss of air. “Pray I do not discover it.”

  “Do you threaten me, sir?” He meant it to sound less fearful.

  “Not a threat, little man.” Mikal’s smile twisted further, a hideous drooping movement. “A warning.”

  With that, he was gone, striding across the carriageyard.

  Harthell the coachman cooed at the gleaming black clockhorses, and the stable-boy, his wide, black eyes gleaming as his hunched and corkscrewed body twitched out from the shadow of the stable, scurried to help. The beasts snorted and champed, gleaming flanks married to delicate metal legs, their hooves chiming almost bell-like as sparks struck from the cobbles.

  Clare leaned against the carriage’s mud-spattered side. A thin misting rain began to fall, and the low venomous smell of Londinium’s fog filled his nose. His calf throbbed, his head was full of noise, and he began to suspect he was not very well at all, at all.

  A fraction of coja would set him right in a heartbeat. First he must change his clothes, then tell Ludo to hurry…

  But Ludo was gone, closed in cold earth with a sorceress’s blood spattering his coffin. It was perhaps what the Neapolitan would have wanted. The only thing better would be a burning boat, as the pagans of old in cold countries had sent warriors into the beyond.

  Clare’s eyes were full of hot liquid. He hurried into the house, creepingly thankful few of the servants had returned from the graveside yet, to see him in such disarray.

  Chapter Eight

  I Shall Enlighten You

  “Person to see you, mum.” Finch’s face had squeezed in on itself in a most dreadful fashion. Rather as if he had sucked a lemon, which could either mean he was impressed by the visitor’s status, or quite the opposite.

  Emma lowered the chill, damp handkerchief over her eyes. Her study was very dimly lit, and the leather sopha she had collapsed upon was a trifle too hard. Still, it was not the floor, and if furniture witnessed her déshabillé, or behaving not quite as a lady should, it would not speak of the matter.

  Nor would Finch, and she took care to answer kindly, “I am not receiving, Finch. Thank you.” The shelves of leather spines–each book useful in some fashion, if only for a single line–frowned down upon her, and the banked coal fire in the grate gave a welcome warmth without the glare of open flame.

  Finch cleared his throat. Delicately.

  I see. “A rather fine carriage, following us from the graveyard,” she murmured. “Yes. Did they, perchance, present a card?”

  “No mum.”

  Of course not. “Mikal?”

  “Is aware, mum.”

  I certainly hope he is. “And what do you make of the carriage, Mr Finch?” For though her butler appeared a gaunt dusty nonentity, he most certainly was not thick-headed. Or easy to ruffle.

  His lemon-sucking face intensified, his collar pressing papery neck-flesh. The indenture collar would grant him a longer lease aboveground, but he was ageing. “Not so much the carriage as the guards about it. All of Brooke Street’s under their eye, mum.”

  “Indeed.” They were all aging. Severine Noyon sometimes limped, old injuries stiffening her thickened body. Isobel and Catherine, once bonny young maids, were past the first flush of youth now, and would perhaps marry if she settled a dowry upon them. Bridget and Alice as well. She should attend to that, and soon.

  A Prime’s life was long, and enough of a burden without a Philosopher’s Stone taken from a dead lover’s wrack and ruin to weigh upon one. She had intended to make Clare proof against time, and also to assuage her damnable conscience in the matter.

  And yet.

  Finch brought her back to the matter at hand. “The watchers arrived just as Cook and the girls did.”

  In other words, they did not wish to be remarked by a sorceress or a Shield, knowing one or both of us would sense a watch upon the house as we returned. I should feel insulted. An involuntary sigh worked its way past her lips. “The servants?”

  “All accounted for, mum. The carriage is a fine bit of work, but without design. Clockhorses worth a pretty penny. Black as… well, black, mum.”

&nbs
p; Black as death. “How very interesting.” She crushed the scrap of lace and cambric between her fingers and her sweating brow. “Very well, send word I shall receive one person, and one only.”

  “Shall I bring tea?”

  A cuppa would do me a world of good. “No. Rum. And vitae.”

  “Yesmum.” He sounded relieved, even though he would know the very thought of violet-scented vitae would unsettle his employer’s stomach most roundly.

  “Thank you, Finch.” If the carriage held what she suspected, the drink would come in handy.

  For both of them.

  “Yesmum,” he repeated, and shuffled out. The set of his thin shoulders was profoundly relieved, no doubt eased by this intimation that his mistress knew exactly what she was about. As usual, her own steadiness provoked calm and assurance in her servants.

  Emma allowed herself one more deep, pained sigh.

  Of course Clare was… upset. The wonder was that he had not bethought himself to ask such questions before. For a logic machine trapped in distracting flesh, he certainly seemed a bit… well, naïve.

  She rose, slowly, her hands accomplishing the familiar motions of setting her dress to rights. She lowered the veil–a tear-stained face and dishevelled curls was not how she wished to face whatever manner of unpleasantness this was likely to be.

  Blinking furiously, Emma Bannon lowered her head and strode for the door.

  Pale birch furniture, indigo cushions, the wallpaper soft silken blue as a summer sky. The mirrors glowed faintly, though the curtains were drawn–a strip of garden before a stone wall was not the best view, though sometimes Emma thought of a Minor Seeming–a lakeside, perhaps? The trouble with such a fancy was that it weakened any ætheric defence, though glass was wondrous when it came to building illusion upon a physical matrix.

  She stood by the cold fireplace–no flame had been laid, and the room was chill. It reflected her feelings toward the entire day, she supposed, and cast a longing glance at the settee. But, no–standing, and the presumed advantage of being afoot, was called for.

  The air vibrated uneasily, and the door opened. “Mum,” Finch murmured, showing the visitor inside.

  Another heavily veiled figure in black, and for a moment the sensation was of falling into a reflective surface. Or the past, that great dark well. But this woman, while slightly taller than Emma, was considerably rounder. Her black was very proper widow’s weeds, and jewels flashed as she smoothed the veil aside with plump fingers.

  There was another soundless flashing, the light that preceded thunder, and Emma’s mouth turned itself to a thin, bitter line before she smoothed her features.

  But she did not make a courtesy. Pride, a sorceress’s besetting sin.

  Perhaps I have simply learned to value myself.

  The face behind the veil’s screen was rounder too, and beginning to exhibit the ravages of time, care, and rich food. The girl she had once been had vanished. Pressures of rule had hammered that girl into this woman–weak-chinned, yes, but the eyes were piercing, as well as black from lid to lid, and spangled with dry constellations not even a sorcerer could name. Her cheeks were coarser, and slightly flushed, and perhaps it was a blessing that Alexandrine Victrix, Queen of the Isles and Empress of the Indus, bearer of the spirit of rule, did not know how much she resembled her deceased mother.

  The drawing room trembled like oil on the surface of a wind-ruffled pond. A Prime’s temper could tear this entire house–and a good portion of Mayefair, did it become necessary–asunder, leaving only a smoking hole of chaos and irrationality. The scar would be long in healing.

  Why stop there? Londinium itself could bear some cleansing. Perhaps if stone was pulled from stone, the trees blasted and the birds silenced Emma Bannon might find some peace.

  Is peace my aim, then?

  Victrix’s lip twitched, perhaps a sign of disdain. Certainly it was not amusement, as it might have been once. “Emma.”

  As the first blow of a duel, it left rather something to be desired. “Your Majesty.” Do you see your mother’s face in the mirror? Gossip holds that you were reconciled to her on her deathbed, even though you found certain proof in Conroy’s papers of some terrible guilt.

  What was it like, she wondered, to host the spirit of rule, to be the law and will of the Isles incarnate… and to find your own mother had plotted against you? Then there was the matter of the Consort, whose health had never been fine after the Red had swept Londinium. Emma would have thought the widow’s weeds a silent rebuke, but for the fact that a queen would feel no need to rebuke, certainly… and the ancillary fact that it was Victrix’s own government that had loosed that particular scourge on the world.

  The method of making a cure was known far and wide now, and Emma had held her tongue.

  For after all, Clare had survived, even if Emma’s Shield, Eli, had not. He had rendered faithful service, and she had failed to protect him.

  I am not calm at all. Harsh training sank its claws into her vitals, a vice about her forehead as well. A tiny tremor rippled through her skirts, making a soft sweet sound.

  That was all.

  Victrix’s chin rose slightly. “We are here to speak with you.”

  “Obviously.” Emma did not have to search for asperity. She was slightly gratified to see the woman’s chin wobble: a very small, betraying movement.

  The queen’s face shifted, like clay in cold running water. Emma watched through the veil as Britannia woke, Her fleshly vessel filling like the Themis in its stony bed during the autumn torrents that would soon start and drown Londinium as the summer had failed to do.

  The spirit of rule peered out of Her chosen bearer, and Victrix’s jewels flashed again, with a power different than sorcery.

  “Arrogant witchling.” The voice was different, too, and Victrix’s expression a stony wall. “Is it a grudge you bear?”

  “What good would that do?” Emma lifted one shoulder, dropped it in an approximation of a shrug. An unladylike movement, but it expressed her feelings perfectly. “What is it the spirit of Empire requires?”

  For a long moment Britannia studied her, the spirit’s gaze sharpening further. “Do you still obey My vessel, witchling?”

  I return every communication either of you see fit to send me unopened, and have for a long while now. “Does she still see fit to insult me?”

  “Petty.” Britannia narrowed her eyes, the glow above Her veiled, grey-threaded head the most evanescent crown of all, a sign of the spirit fully inhabiting its vessel, all its attention brought to bear. “Who are you, to take insult?”

  I am Prime. You should know better, Britannia, even if Victrix does not. She simply gazed through her heavy veil, willing the wine-red fury within her to retreat.

  “We are weakened,” the spirit finally said, its cold lipless voice somehow faintly obscene, issuing from a stout woman’s throat. “We have… there is a draining of Our vital energy. A threat.”

  A draining? Weakened? Emma frankly stared. The world seemed to shift a bit beneath her. “Ah,” she managed, finally. “I see.”

  “No.” Britannia drew Victrix’s mouth back, into a rictus. “You do not. But We shall enlighten you.”

  Chapter Nine

  How Many Acquaintances

  A few effects stuffed higgledy-piggledy into his trusty Gladstone, and Clare halted to stare at the bed. It was neatly made, the linens snow-white and the red velvet counterpane as familiar as the worn quilt covering his narrow Baker Street bed. Here the furniture was heavy and dark, of a quality to last; his flat seemed rather shabby in comparison.

  How many times had he slept here, though? Contemplated a case at Miss Bannon’s dinner table, had a companionable tea in the solarium–both of them silent except for a Pass the marmalade, if you please or a How droll, this article claims thus-and-such? How many times had Miss Bannon quietly arranged matters to suit him, or anticipated his need for a particular item? A woman’s sorcery, she would remark, brushing aside his th
anks.

  He was behaving most shabbily. The voice of Logic demanded he halt and consider, and he would heed that dictate before pausing to even consider the voice of Manners.

  His breathing came heavily. His heart thundered in his chest, the heart she had repaired–Valentinelli had dragged him here, spattered with ordure and in the throes of a severe angina. Miss Bannon had not questioned or demurred in the slightest. Instead, she had thrown her considerable, if illogical, resources into working a miracle to keep Clare alive. It was Miss Bannon who had brought him to Ludovico in the first instance, during the affair with the army of mecha. Protection for Clare’s tender person, indeed.

  He would not, if he understood her correctly, have to fear a repeat occurrence of the angina, or the slow clouding of old age. His faculties would remain undimmed. The greatest fear a mentath could suffer, set aside with breathtaking speed.

  The fear of physical harm, never overwhelming for a mentath used to calculating probability and setting aside Feeling, was now non-existent.

  The possibilities for experimentation were utterly boggling.

  He could, no doubt, find a fraction of coja at an apothecary’s, and begin there. Clare snapped the Gladstone closed. He glanced at the door, opening his mouth to tell Valentinelli…

  … absolutely nothing. The Neapolitan’s place was empty, and would remain so.

  Now there was an avenue of thought best left unexplored: dealing with how many acquaintances Clare would outlast.

  If I had known, I would not have allowed him to attend the trial. The danger was clear.

  How could he have halted the Neapolitan, though? Stubborn as a brick, that man. And why had Miss Bannon not inflicted this burden on him? They were two cats, the sorceress and the assassin, disdainful but never far from each other, sidelong glances and mincing steps. Valentinelli had been married once, but the name of his wife was a mystery, just as so much else about him.

  His last word, strega, whispered the way another might take a lover’s name into the dark.