Lilith Saintcrow - The Red Plague Affair

… a criminal empire, and the Eye of Bhestet, now. And the satisfaction of winning.

Clare puffed even more slowly. Perhaps he should take a fraction of coja while he meditated upon the question of Dr Vance and his own response to the man?

At that precise moment, however, there was a token knock at the door, and Valentinelli slunk in, his pox-scarred face a thundercloud. He carried two Gladstones, and behind him trooped the cadaverous Finch supervising two footmen and a charm-cart carrying a brace of trunks.

Horace, and Gilburn . Clare found their names and the mental drawers holding their particulars with no difficulty. Like all Miss Bannon’s servants, they had their peculiar ities. Horace was missing half the smallest finger on his left hand, and Gilburn’s slow, stately pace was less the result of decorum than of his Altered left leg – everything below the knee was gone, due to an accident Clare had not quite gained the details of yet, replaced with a tibia and fibula of slender dark metal chased with pain-suppressant and oiling charms; the limb terminated in a clockwork foot that was a marvel of delicate architecture. Miss Bannon had remarked once that she had contracted especially for the Alteration, since Gilburn had received great injury in her service, and the man had blushed, ducking his head like a schoolboy. For all that, he was quiet and well-oiled, and Horace often tucked his mutilated finger away or wore a glove with padding to hide it.

The more Clare saw of Miss Bannon’s servants, the more he suspected quite a tender heart behind the sorceress’s fearsome ruthlessness. Or perhaps Miss Bannon knew that there was no gratitude quite like that of a disfigured servant given back his or her pride and held to high expectations of performance.

And no loyalty like that of an outcast given a home.

It was a testament to the complexity of the sorceress’s character that Clare could not quite decide which or what combination of considerations led to her policy.

“Eh, mentale .” Ludovico dropped both heavy leather bags near the fireplace. “Where you want the trunks?”

“I am certain wherever those excellent fellows choose to set them will be quite proper.” Clare made a small movement with his still fuming pipe. “Did you bring my alembics?”

“Am I your donna di servizio ? Pah!” The Neapolitan made as if to spit, but visibly considered better of it. “Baerbarth will bring those . He is still packing.”

Dear God . “I do not intend to abuse Miss Bannon’s hospitality to such a degree—”

“Oh, what you intend and what la strega intend, they are not the same.” Ludo waved one dusky, calloused hand. “I have letters, too.” He toed one of the Gladstones and crouched to unbuckle it, keeping a wary eye on the two footmen. “Many, many letters.”

Clare suppressed a groan.

“Will you be needing these unpacked, sir?” Gilburn said, laboriously seeking to disguise his heavy Dorset accent.

“Yes indeed .” Valentinelli snorted. “ I am not unpacking, and he is weak as kitten.”

“For God’s sake, I’m not an invalid!” Clare prepared himself to take issue with this treatment.

“Do you rise from that chair, sir, I shall make certain you reoccupy it just as swiftly.” It was Clare’s least favourite of Valentinelli’s voices, the crisp consonants and upper-crust drawl of a bored Exfall student. The Neapolitan often employed such an accent when he felt Clare to be behaving ridiculously in some manner. “For the time being, we are abusing Miss Bannon’s hospitality roundly.” His tone changed a fraction as he dove into one of the Gladstones. “I thought we lost you last night, mentale .”

“It was merely a trifle, my good man. Merely a bit of chest pain—”

“You make a bad liar, sir.” Valentinelli nodded as the footmen began unbuckling the trunks. “Here, I bring your post to your chair, as good valet should.”

I do not need any damn letters or a thrice-damned Neapolitan valet. What I need is to catch Vance and put him in the bloody dock, and for you and Miss Bannon to cease this ridiculousness. Still, duty called, and Clare’s legs were decidedly unsteady. It was, he had to admit, a relief to have some of his effects brought to him. Except for the galling fact of Dr Vance’s escape, a stay at 34½ Brooke Street did sound quite pleasant. Tonic, even.

But being treated like a child was insufferable. He sank into silence, even the soothing tabac smoke overpowered by quite reasonable irritation.

“Here.” Valentinelli brought the lapdesk, a cunningly constructed item of wood inlaid with hammered brass. A fat sheaf of paper – envelopes, with varying handwriting, all addressed to Mr Archibald Clare, Esq . – landed atop it, and Valentinelli busied himself with exchanging the bowl of pipe ash at Clare’s elbow with a fresh cut-crystal tray, then scooping up a pen, ivory letter opener, and a silver-chased ink bottle from the massive table in the centre of the apartment. “You are like la suocera with none to scold.”

Clare could have cheerfully cursed at him, and perhaps would have, had they been at his own address. His landlady, the redoubtable Mrs Ginn, did not like Valentinelli, and Clare wondered what she thought of this turn of events.

With a sigh, he turned himself to the first envelope. It was addressed from Lancashire, the handwriting female and gently bred, even if the ink was cheap. Impoverished gentry, probably seeking some guess as to the whereabouts of a missing husband.

There were precious few surprises in any piece of mail he opened, and his faculties rebelled at the slow rot triggered by want of proper use. That was half the trouble – Vance and his exploits were, at least, interesting .

Another heavy sigh, and Clare opened the envelope. Duty. Ever duty .

Perhaps Miss Bannon’s responsibilities weighed as onerously as his, but she certainly never seemed bored .

Dear Sir, I am writing to you in great distress… my husband Thomas has disappeared and …

Another deep, tabac-scented, involuntary sigh, and Clare set to work.

It was an occasion of little pomp, but great publicity. “You may approach.” Alexandrina Victrix, Britannia’s chosen vessel, ruler of the Isles and Empress of Indus, sat straight-backed on her gem-laden throne, the Stone of Scorn underneath one leg glowing soft silver. The hexagonal Throne Room, its vast glass ceiling full of rainy Londinium mornlight, was nevertheless full of shadowed corners behind and between marble columns, and in one such corner was a deeper shadow.

Emma held the glamour soft and still, though an alert observer would catch any movement she made, or perhaps a gleam from her jewellery. True invisibility was difficult and painfully draining, but simply blending into shadow was so easy as to be childishly entertaining. Mikal was a soft-breathing warmth at her back, and Eli would be in the gallery above, moving silent as a fish in deep water.

He hunted best while drifting.

The Queen’s dark hair frothed in ringlets near her ears, the back put up as a married woman’s should be, and her soft face blurred like clay under running water. Her eyes had turned infinitely dark, tiny speckles of starlight in their depths as the ruling spirit of the Isle woke slightly and peered out of its vessel. The Queen’s youthful figure had thickened, pregnancy swelling the outline of the girl Emma Bannon had sworn service to.

That oath was private and unspoken, and Emma was of the secret opinion that Britannia, as ageless and wise as She was, did not quite comprehend the nature of the sorceress’s commitment.