Lilith Saintcrow - The Red Plague Affair

“I take it this physicker is a challenging quarry.” The salad, also in Continental fashion, had a tart tang that vied with the hock, but not displeasingly. “Since you are prepared to spend more than a day in seeking him.”

She accepted the compliment with a slight queenly nod. “Any effects which might have told me the direction of his flight were quite provokingly absent. Questioning his neighbours led to nothing, as there were none. He has very few friends, and no tradesmen to question either, since any deliveries to said house left no scrap of bill or list.”

“Very few friends?” Speaks the sorceress who has none. Except, perhaps, myself. As strange as it was, it seemed she valued his person far more than she valued even her fellow sorcerers. She had plenty of acquaintances, the better to hunt Queen Victrix’s enemies in Society and elsewhere. But very few ever saw behind the mask of manners and flashes of practical temper she chose to show.

She touched her glass of hock, thought better of it. “His disposition is said to be unpleasantly pedantic.”

Is it now . “The same could be said of my own.”

“You are difficult . Not unpleasant .” The sally was pale, but she was attempting to put him at ease.

And that was troubling. It was not at all her usual manner. “I am heartened to hear as much.”

“His personal effects were thoroughly absent as well. There was not a scrap left behind to practise a sympathy upon, and I do not wish him alerted if he has engaged another of my kind to help him hide. I prefer to surprise him, since Her Majesty wishes him taken alive.” She paused, as if waiting for him to comment. When he did not, she forged onward. “And undamaged.”

His eyebrows threatened to rise. “She made a special point of those strictures? To you?”

“She did.”

“Very interesting.” He nodded, slowly. “The Crown requires information from him, but does not wish you to extract it.”

“Insulting, but perhaps precautionary. Mine is not to question Britannia.”

Was she aware of the clear note of pride ringing through the words, or the tilt of her head expressing even more pride in her chosen servitude? Perhaps not. “And the good physicker’s disappearance was exceedingly well-planned. Which means he is in possession of something very valuable, something that could perhaps be used against our ruling spirit.”

“Or Her vessel,” she was quick to remind him, though her expression was suddenly very thoughtful. “Which concerns me more. Britannia… endures.”

“And may She ever.” The mumble was reflexive. Clare contemplated for a few further seconds, savouring every particle of the course before him. At least Miss Bannon did not press him – she knew that when he was ready, he would speak.

He did not, however, have the chance. For Eli pushed his chair back and rose, stiffly, his flaming cheeks and bright glassy gaze suddenly very pronounced.

The entire dining room drew a sharp breath. Or perhaps it was only Miss Bannon, whose earrings swung, spitting pale sparks, the profile on her large cameo running with pale foxfire as her mouth opened, her question – or irritable reproof – also unvoiced.

Eli collapsed, falling to the floor in a heap, and began to convulse, his entire body jerking to some music only its strained and tortured muscles could hear.

“High fever.” Clare’s sensitive fingers found the pulse in Eli’s wrist, high and thready. “His heart is racing. No, those will do no good, cease waving them about.”

The smelling salts vanished, one of the footmen whisking them away. Miss Bannon stood, her arms crossed over her midriff and a curious look on her childlike face. “It is not sorcerous,” she said, numbly. “I cannot find its source… Archibald, what is it?”

Mikal’s hand was on her shoulder, and the older Shield gazed down with a peculiar expression. Almost… amazed. And there was a flash of something very like fear; was this some dreadful fate that befell certain Shields? No, for Miss Bannon would know of its provenance and treatment.

Clare simply stored the observation away for later, being more occupied with the event before him. “I do not know yet.” He peeled back one eyelid, stared at the fascinatingly thin greasing of blood over the white underneath. “Most interesting. Ludovico! Fetch my case, the one with—”

“Already here, mentale. ” The Neapolitan squatted on Eli’s other side; he and Mikal had carried the fallen Shield into the adjoining cigar room, for the use of men during dinner parties Miss Bannon rarely, if ever, hosted. There was a soft confusion in the corridors – servants sent hither and yon, and the walls themselves resonating a trifle, as if feeling the pale, wide-eyed sorceress’s distress.

“I can sense nothing,” Mikal murmured, clearly audible. “Prima… Emma .”

Do keep her calm, sir. “He was well enough this morning.” Clare opened the small black Gladstone with a practised motion. “Let me see, let me see…”

Cholera? No, entirely wrong symptoms. Not flu, or dropsy – there were swellings under the chin, ruddy and vital, and when Clare touched one in the axillary region the sudden galvanic jerk running through the unconscious body informed him the bulges were painful. He next tried the inguinal fold, unconcerned at Miss Bannon seeing him handle the patient so familiarly. The same response, the same swelling. “Most intriguing.”

“Burning up.” Ludovico pressed his fingers to Eli’s sweating forehead. The Shield’s dark hair was sopping now, and the smell of his sweat was curiously sweet. Almost sugary.

“We shall need to make him comfortable. And ice, to bring the fever down.” Clare settled on his heels, considering.

“How much ice do you require?” Miss Bannon’s skirts made a low sweet sound, and Clare realised she was trembling.

Most unsettling . She was by far the woman least likely to engage in a display of fear or sentiment he had ever known. “Perhaps an ice bath? We must send for a merchant or charmer—”

She waved one small hand, visibly collecting herself. Her rings – two of plain silver, another a large ruby with a visible flaw in its centre that held a point of red light – glowed under the soft gaslight, and for a moment the atmosphere of the room chilled. “You shall have everything necessary or helpful. I shall also send for a physicker. Mikal, please inform Mr Finch to do so. Ludo, be a darling and tell Madame Noyon we shall need water boiled, and a tub brought to Eli’s room. And you…” She pointed at one of the footmen, broad brawny Teague. Horace did not wait upon the table tonight. “Bring Marcus in to help carry him. Move along now, boys.”

The Neapolitan and the Shield sprang into motion, and Miss Bannon approached swiftly. She knelt, tucking her skirts back with a practised hand, and the edge of her new perfume – bergamot and spiced pear, odd but not unpleasing – brushed Clare’s face. “I cannot Mend him effectively if I do not know what ails him. I cannot find a source for this distress.” Her gaze was fastened to Eli’s face. “In the absence of that, anything you need to discern the cause shall be provided. Archibald…”

“Don’t fear, Emma.” His hand clamped around Eli’s wrist as the younger man began to thrash. “But do move back, he may harm you.”

Physicker Darlington was a round jolly man in the long black stuff-coat of his trade, a throwback to the time when priests were the only legal medical professionals. At least he did not wear the bird-mask that had also been usual in those days, to protect from ill humours. Instead, he sported fine ruddy muttonchops and a gin-blossomed nose, and Clare caught a faint iron tang of laudanum in the man’s scent.