Lilith Saintcrow: The Red Plague Affair

Don Ignacio de la Hoya began to babble in a throaty whisper, but he told Emma nothing she did not already know of the plot. He had very little else to give, and fear would only make him too stupid for proper use. His replacement in the consulate was likely to be just as idiotic, but vastly less troublesome.

His heart , she found herself thinking. What manner of substance was he using? The damage was much more than it should have been; thirty-five does not make a man old. Merely lucky, and somewhat better-fed than the rest.

She brought herself back to the present with an invisible effort. Mikal read the change in her expression, and the greenstick crack of a neck breaking was very loud in the hushed room. The candle on the table guttered, but the charm in its wax kept the flame alive.

On the floor, the Duke moaned, his eyes rolling. He was to be delivered to the Tower whole and reasonably undamaged. For a bare moment Emma Bannon, Sorceress Prime in service to Queen and Empire, contemplated crushing the life out of him by sorcery alone. It would be messy, true, but also satisfying, and Queen Victrix would never have to fear this caged beast’s resurgence. He had chosen ill in the manner of accomplices, but he was capable of learning from such a mistake.

The decision is not yours, sorceress , she told herself again. Cailesborough had been one of the few allowed near Alexandrina Victrix when she had been merely heir presumptive under the stifling-close control of the Duchess of Kent; of course he had not been a marriage prospect but he had no doubt been amenable to extending the Duchess’s sway over her soon-to-be-crowned daughter. The old King’s living until Victrix’s majority had cheated the Duchess of a regency, and no doubt Victrix had cheated Cailesborough of some prize of position or ambition. Still, the Queen appeared to wish him dealt with leniently.

If the Tower could be called lenient .

De la Hoya’s body hit a rolled up, unfashionable carpet with a thump, raising a small cloud of dust. Mikal glanced at her. “Prima?” Did he look concerned?

It had taken far more sorcerous force than she liked to lure them both to this room and to spring her trap. And the worry returned, sharper than ever. Clare was not a young man, and he seemed inclined, if not flatly determined, to do himself an injury.

“Bring the body, and the Duke.” Londinium’s fog was thick tonight, and it would cover all manner of actions. “The window is behind those dreadful curtains – and do make certain the Duke lands gently. Lady Winslet’s gardens need no damage.” She stood, a slight crackling as her finger flicked and a cleansing charm shook dust free of her skirts. The silver shoes with their high arches and spangled laces were lovely, but they pinched abominably, and her corset squeezed as well. I would much rather have been at home tonight. How boring I’ve grown.

“I’ll fetch the carriage.” Mikal paused, if she wished to tell him where they were bound. It was a Shield’s courtesy, and a welcome one.

“We shall take both unfortunates to the Tower.” Though the body will go no further than the moat. The Dweller should be pleased with that.

Eli bent and made a slight sound as he managed the Duke’s bulky, fear-stiffened form. Mikal simply stood for a moment, watching her closely. She took back the mask of her usual expression, straightened her shoulders and promised herself a dash of rum once she returned to her humble abode.

And still, the worry taunted her.

Something must be done about Clare.

Dark wainscoting, large graceful shelves crammed with books and periodicals, including an entire set of the new edition of the Encyclopaedie Britannicus – Miss Bannon’s servants were, as ever, extraordinarily thorough – and the heavy oak armoire full of linens charm-measured exactly to Clare’s frame. The rest of the room was comfortably shabby, rich red velvet rubbed down to the nub and the tables scattered with papers left precisely where he had placed them the last time he had availed himself of Miss Bannon’s hospitality.

The oddity was the chair set by his bedside, and the sorceress within it, her slightness cupped in heavy ebony arms and her curling dark hair slightly mussed as she leaned against the high hard back, sound asleep, dressed in silver and blue finery fit to attend a Court presentation. Her childlike face, without her waking character to lend authority to the soft features, was slack with utter exhaustion.

Of no more than middle height, and slight as well, it was always a surprise to see just how small she truly was. One tended to forget as the force of her presence filled a room to bursting.

The other oddity stood at his chamber door, a tall man with tidy dark hair, an olive-green velvet jacket and curious boots, his irises glowing yellow in the dimness. The smell of paper, clean sheets, a faint ghost of tabac smoke, and the persistent creeping breath of Londinium’s yellow fog alone would have told Clare he was in the room Miss Bannon kept for his visits.

Which had been rather less often than he liked, of late. The sorceress’s company could not be called restful, precisely, but all the same Clare found it rather relaxing to have at least one person with whom he could feel a certain… informality?

Was comfort the more precise term?

The Shield, Mikal, did not stir. His yellow gaze rested upon Clare with distressing penetration.

Lucid. But very weak. He tested his body’s responses, gingerly. They obeyed, grudging him as if he were an invalid. Fingers like sausages, toes swollen but movable, his chest sore as if a gigantic clawed hand had rummaged through the inside of his ribcage and left a jumbled mess behind.

Now for the important part . His eyes half-lidded, and he performed the curious mental doubling of a mentath. A set of mental chalkboards rose before his consciousness, and he began with the simplest exercises he had learned at Yton when his talent had truly begun to manifest itself. Mentath ability came to the fore during late childhood, scholarships were quite generous for any who showed considerable promise.

Said scholarships, however, were contingent upon that promise being fulfilled.

A quarter of an hour later, loose with relief but sweating from the mental effort, Clare let out a long, shaky sigh. His faculties were unharmed.

Miss Bannon, perhaps disturbed by the slight sound, shifted in the chair and fell back into slumber. Clare now had the opportunity to study her while she was deeply asleep, and it was so novel an experience he rather wished he had not been forced to forgo a portion of that time to making certain whatever had happened to him had not destroyed his capacities.

You are avoiding, Clare. It was angina pectoris. Rather severe, too.

Mikal’s eyes had half-closed as well. The Shield leaned against the door, and he was perhaps almost asleep. Did he think Clare a threat to the sorceress?

She did rather manage to accomplish a fair amount of vexation. Especially to Britannia’s enemies. And she did so with a disregard for her own safety likely to give the Shield, tasked with maintaining said safety, a bit of nervousness.

However, it was far more likely that Mikal was unwilling to let Miss Bannon out of his sight for… other reasons. Quite personal considerations, one could say.

The question of Mikal had occupied Clare most handsomely at one time or another. Since the affair that had brought the mentath into the sorceress’s circle – not that Miss Bannon had anything so social as a circle , it was rather the circle of her regard, which frankly interested Clare more – he had added tiny nuggets of information to the deductive chain Mikal represented.