Lilith Saintcrow - The Red Plague Affair

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?

Who was anyone? Still, Emma found herself curious.

The Prince Consort sank into a chair at the Queen’s side, picked up her small gloved and ringed hand, chafed it gently between his own. He cast a dark, disapproving glance at Emma, who affected not to notice.

“Emma.” As if the Queen had to remind herself who precisely the woman sitting in one of her chairs was.

Now was the moment to turn her gaze to Victrix’s face. So Emma did, wishing she had not left Mikal in the hallway outside. It would be… comforting, to have him close. Rather too comforting, and hence a weakness. She banished the thought, bringing all her considerable attention to bear. “Yes, Your Majesty. I attend.”

“No doubt,” the Consort muttered bleakly, as if he expected Emma not to hear.

“Alberich.” Victrix’s tone held a warning, but a mild one. “Lady Sellwyth is highly capable, and has earned Our trust in numerous affairs.”

“Sellwyth. A worm’s name.” The Prince Consort patted her hand again. “You said so yourself.”

An angry flush sought to rise to Emma’s cheeks. She quelled it, iron training denying flesh its chance to distract her. What would this princeling know of the battle atop Dinas Emrys, the knife sunk in the back of the only Sorcerer Prime who had ever matched her, and the danger she had averted? Had she failed…

… 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?”