Lilith Saintcrow: The Red Plague Affair

“This artefact would not happen to be the Eye of Bhestet, would it?” She cut with a decided motion, her spine absolutely straight. Tiny bites, as a lady should . The ghost of a wasp-waisted Magistra Prima at the Collegia walked decorously through her memory: a familiar song of black watered-silk skirts.

Prima Grinaud had been a harsh teacher, but a consistent and ruthlessly judicious one. There was much to emulate in the woman, even if her cruelty was legendary among the Collegia’s children. Primes were notoriously long-lived, but Grinaud seemed to be kept on this side of the great curtain of Being by sheer wormwood and gall.

Clare’s silence deepened. He did look rather ill, she decided, glancing in his direction just briefly enough to ascertain this. Perhaps I should not tell him. Perhaps, instead, she could enquire as to the odd substance he had been dosing himself with? It had not tasted healthful at all.

He finally spoke. “Stolen. Of course. He must have given me the slip in Thrushneedle. Bloody hell .”

“It was in the broadsheets this morning.” And yes, she definitely regretted telling him. “The Museum is most embarrassed. Speculation is rampant as to the culprit. I am… sorry, Clare. If you like—”

“He is a mentath , Miss Bannon.” Frosty, and polite, a tone he rarely used. He was pale, his eyes glittering harshly. The rug over his knees creased itself as he fidgeted precisely once. “Illogic and sorcery are not applicable tools to catch him.”

Well, you’ve been doing a fine job of it with your vaunted deductions. She occupied herself with another nibble of banger. Greasy, satisfying, hot, delicious. Just what it should be. When she was certain she had a firm hold on her temper, she spoke. “Perhaps not. More toast? Cook remembers your fondness for kippers as well.”

But Clare was staring morosely into his teacup. “So close,” he mumbled. “And… ah, yes. Definitely in Thrushneedle. He was only out of sight for a moment, damn him. Even Ludo—”

“Yes, Ludovico.” Irritation made her own manner sharper than she liked. “I told him to take great care with you, and this is what happens. You could have died, sir, and that would distress me most profoundly.”

There. It was said. The entire breakfast room rang with uncomfortable silence. She speared another tiny piece of sausage with quite unaccustomed viciousness.

“I do not mean to be the source of distress.” He still stared into his teacup as if he would find Vance’s whereabouts in its depths. “I simply—”

“The man is not a danger to the Crown.” She did her best to utter it as a simple statement of fact. “He is a thief. A passing-good one, a mentath who uses his talents for vice, but in the end, merely a thief. He is not worth such attention, Clare. Her Majesty would prefer your consideration turned elsewhere. You are, after all, one of the Queen’s Own.” She eyed the glittering ring on her second left finger, a delicate confection of marcasite and silver, ætheric force thrumming in its depths visible to Sight. “There are other matters to be attended to.”

“I should simply let him go, after he has thumbed his nose at—”

“Clare.”

“He stole from the Museum—”

“Clare.”

“Damn it, the man is a menace to—”

“ Archibald .”

He subsided. Emma found her appetite gone. She set her implements down and fixed him with a glare he might have found quelling had he not still been staring into his teacup. Oh, for God’s sake.

“I would take it as a kindness,” she informed him, stiffly, “if you would convalesce here. Ludovico was sent this morning to gather such of your effects – and such things pertaining to the cases you have been neglecting while you chase your art professor – as are necessary for your comfort during such an extended stay.” She restrained herself from further lecture with a marked effort of will.

“I suppose the servants have been informed of my tender condition.” He even managed to wheeze a little.

And furthermore informed that you are not to stir one step outside this house unless it is under my care and my express orders. “You suppose correctly. You have been fretting yourself absolutely dry over this Vance character, Archibald. Pray do not force me to immure you in your room like Lady Chandevault.”

He finally looked directly at her, blinking owlishly, looking more mournful and basset-hound-like than ever. “Who? Oh, that. Miss Bannon – Emma . There is no need for concern. It was merely angina, which is common enough. I am not so young, and certain—”

Was she the only one to notice the lines at the corners of his mouth, the bleariness of his blue gaze? And the terrible fragility of him, hunched in a chair with the laprobe tucked carefully about him. Emma opened her mouth to take him to task and turn the conversation to what manner of substance he had been dosing himself with, but was interrupted by the door opening without so much as a polite knock to warn the room’s occupants.

It was Mikal, his dark hair slightly disarranged and his coat somewhat askew. He must have been at a Shield’s morning practice, for Eli was hard on his heels. “An envelope, Prima.” Mikal’s mouth was a thin line. “From the Palace.”

“Ah.” So soon? But treachery did not wait for mannerly visiting hours, she reminded herself. “Some fresh crisis, no doubt. Archibald, finish your breakfast. It seems there are other matters for me to attend to.”

He looked strangely stricken, and sought to rise as she did. She waved him back down. “No, no. Please, do not. Concentrate on your recovery, or I shall be not only vexed but downright peeved with you. A fate worse than death, I’m sure.” Her sally only received the faintest of smiles, but she had no time to remark upon his sudden high colour and the steely glint in his tired, bloodshot blue eyes.

For the envelope Mikal deposited in her hands bore a familiar hand on its front, and the seal – heavy and waxen – was Victrix’s personal device.

The Queen called, and her faithful servant hurried to obey, leaving the mentath to breakfast and loneliness.

Shut me up like a child, will you? Clare’s pipe puffed fragrant tabac-smoke, furiously. He glowered at the grate, unable to enjoy the comforts of a charming, familiar Mayefair room. There are other matters for you to attend to. More important ones, surely.

He was, perhaps, being ridiculous.

Perhaps? No. You are definitely being ridiculous.

It did not sting so much that Miss Bannon had taken him to task. What pinched was that she was correct in doing so. He had been rather lax when it came to his duty to the Queen.

But Vance was such a damn nuisance. And it was twice now that Clare had been outplayed rather badly by the man. It most certainly did not help that there was no earthly reason why the sodding brute would want the statue of Bhestet, carven from a single priceless blue gem. It was more of a gauntlet, a game, than an actual theft.

A game Clare had lost; a gauntlet he had not returned.

His pipe-puffing slowed, turned meditative. Tabac smoke rose in a grey veil, and near the ceiling it crackled, a charm activating to shape it into a globe of compressed mist, whisking it towards the fireplace and up the chimney. That was new, and he could almost see Miss Bannon’s pleased expression when he mentioned that such a thing was dashed illogical but useful enough.

What was Vance, to him? Clare was one of the Queen’s Own mentaths, his registration secure and his retirement assured by pension, since he had rendered such signal services during a few affairs of interest to the Crown. The first had, of course, been the most strenuous. And no few of the following affairs had involved Miss Bannon as well. They were rather an effective pair of operatives, Clare had to admit. Miss Bannon was very… logical, for a sorceress. Her capacity was admirable, her ruthlessness and loyalty both quite extraordinary, especially for a woman. Clare had his career, and Miss Bannon’s regard, and his own not-inconsiderable list of achievements. What did Vance have? A chair at a university he had been hounded from, a dead wife and a respectable career gone…