Lilith Saintcrow - The Red Plague Affair

“Very well.” She was pale as milk, and he noticed her skin did not steam, even in this chill. “I did see some indentureds among the collapsed, Clare. I… perhaps mine are simply hardy.”

“Or perhaps you have some natural immunity, Miss Bannon. We cannot be certain.” And should we take a sample of your blood for analysis, who knows what might occur? He opened the folio, hoping his words did not sound too ponderous. His tongue was oddly thick, and the sweat greasing him was most unpleasant. It smelled of treacle, or something similarly sick-sweet, and they had not managed to discern the mechanism responsible for that , either. “Do you feel faint at all?”

“I am quite well, thank you. Sorcerers do not suffer some things, perhaps this is one.” Her gloved fingers hesitated over Ludo’s scar-pocked cheek. For once, she did not draw fastidiously away when he moved. “Clare…”

“He is quite durable, and he has not Morris’s plague.” The false comfort was not worthy of her, but Clare did not have the heart to tell her she was perhaps witnessing the last of Valentinelli’s eventful walk upon the weary earth.

There was a commotion as the footmen arrived, and such was the devotion of the sorceress’s servants that they did not cavil at carrying another very-ill man about, nor did they make avert signs to save themselves from ill fortune or humour. Of course, an indentured servant could not complain… and even cadaverous Finch was in proper health, with not so much as a sniffle.

It was quite provoking. He brought his attention back to the folio, and noted Vance’s hopeful drawing-near.

Miss Bannon noticed too. A few sharp, instantly forgotten syllables left the sorceress’s throat, and Vance hopped back in a most ungainly fashion as the air between himself and Clare hardened, diamond-sparkling for a moment, a concave shield of ice. It slid to the floor, shivering into fragments, and Horace grunted as he hefted Valentinelli’s dead weight.

“Mum?” the footman asked, in a whisper.

“Take him to his chamber. Ready an ice bath, I shall be along in a moment.” The sorceress rose slowly, Marcus the other footman backing slowly up the stairs with his beefy arms under Valentinelli’s shoulders. Strange, how small and thin the Neapolitan looked now. “Doctor, must I warn you further?”

“No, madam.” Icily polite, the criminal mentath stepped back to his spæctroscope. “I am dependent upon solving this riddle as much as your Campanian suitor; or rather more, for I have contracted Morris’s damnable plague. It may save you the trouble of dealing with me in what is no doubt your accustomed fashion.”

“You have precious little idea of my accustomed—” the sorceress began, rather hotly.

Will the two of you cease? “Miss Bannon. Pray leave us to solve this riddle. We shall do all we can. If there is a solution to be found, rest assured you have contributed everything within your considerable powers towards such an end.”

She studied him closely and he straightened under her gaze, hoping she could not see the red splotches on his cheeks or the small tremors running through his bones. He did not have much time before he suffered a crueller fate than Valentinelli’s.

“Very well.” She smoothed her skirts, a woman’s nervousness, perhaps. Never mind that she was, in his experience, the female least likely to need such a soothing habit. “Thank you, Archibald.”

“Emma.” Clare’s throat was full. Feeling, the enemy of Logic, was mounting. Inside his narrow chest, the heart she had mended with sorcery such a short time ago settled into a high, fast gallop.

The mentath watched the sorceress leave, took a deep breath, and returned his attention to the folio, ignoring Vance’s bright deadly gaze.

She had never entered the room given over to Valentinelli’s use before, and saw no reason to now. Mikal hovered at her shoulder as she held the charming steady, her skirts pulled back from the threshold, and Horace and Marcus lowered the assassin into the ice bath. There was a choked cry and Ludovico’s wracked body twisted; Alice the blonde chambermaid and her brunette shadow Eunice worked their homely magic upon the monkish, narrow bed and its linens. Their collars were bright, and they cast darting glances at her; when the footmen heaved Valentinelli free of the slurry of ice and water she made a gesture, a drying charm sparked and fizzed, and he was heaved gracelessly into the waiting bed.

“Mum.” Finch’s discreet cough. He peered around motionless Mikal. “Messenger from the Collegia. Awaiting your reply.”

As soon as she loosed her hold, the assassin began to thrash. She gestured again, and Mikal moved forward, stepping into the room.

An iron rack atop a bureau of dark wood, festooned with cooled and hardened wax, held half-burned candles, their wicks dead and spent. There was a small tau corpse upon it, made of pewter with sad paste gleams for eyes and side-wound.

Does he pray?

The same chest she had seen in his other small rooms stood, closed and secretive, at the foot of his bed. He had chosen this room very near Clare’s suite, despite its small size, and she had oft wondered what lay behind its door.

Mikal settled at the bedside, yellow irises gleaming in the dimness. He would keep the assassin contained, and make certain he did not strike an onlooker in his delirium.

The gaslamps hissed, and the servants looked to her for direction.

Oh, Ludo. Not like this. You deserve a finer end. There was a dry rock in her throat. She turned her attention to Finch. “From the Collegia?”

“Yes, mum.” He did not quite bow, but he did hunch, and she remembered the hungry, sore-ridden wreck he had been long ago, before she had taken him into her service. How Severine had turned up her nose at the distasteful sight, and what had Emma said?

He has performed signal service already, Madame Noyon. Pray do not argue. That had been during the Glastonsauce affair: a newly crowned Queen in dire need of defence against a cabal of creaking ministers and competing interests, not the least of which was her mother’s determination to keep Victrix dependent and weak. The affair had taught Victrix to almost-trust the sharp-eyed young sorceress who had entered the game uninvited and turned it to the monarch’s advantage.

She gathered her skirts. The jet earrings shivered, tapping her cheeks; she took stock of her remaining resources. There was plenty of ætheric force in her jewellery, and the visit to Rudyard’s bolt-hole had not drained her overmuch.

The trouble was, there was nothing she could do . Except fend off Britannia’s ill-humour, and see what the Collegia was about.

Mikal? He took Shield training, they had plenty of time to notice his… distressing talents. They did not. How shall I defend him against a Council of Adepts, one no doubt top-heavy with enemies? Who is likely to be there? What can I muster against them?

And would she surrender her Shield to the Collegia, as the Law might require?

Of course not . Her gaze found Mikal’s. He swayed slightly on his chair, a supple movement. I am Prime. I do not give up what is mine.

No matter how often she asked herself the question, the answer was unvarying.

Was it more than that? She had undertaken to keep Clare close instead of sending him to Victrix, and undertaken to keep the disagreeable Doctor as well. And there was the matter of a tussie-mussie left for her, and a bloodstain upon a filthy Saffron Hill floor. A promise, and a demand.

From whom? Does it matter?

Finch waited with no sign of impatience or irritation. It was a rare man who knew the value of patience, and who was not bothered by silence.