Lilith Saintcrow: The Iron Wyrm Affair

The sorceress, indeed, was trembling. She stared at the hole in the wall to the next cell’s blackness, her lips now moving soundlessly. The writing scored around the edges of the hole burned with sullen foxfire.

Clare cast a nervous glance at the steel-framed door. Grayson had indeed had worthless suppositions, but not as useless as Miss Bannon had supposed. One or two of them were quite reasonable, given the Chancellor’s knowledge of events. And the encircled sorcerer’s words had been most peculiar indeed.

But this was something altogether different. And troubling. “Does Miss Bannon have enemies?”

Mikal’s profile vaguely reminded Clare of a classical statue. The Shield leaned forward, weight on the balls of his feet and his long coat oddly pristine. His attention was focused on the woman, whose trembling had spread into the air around her. Rather like the heat haze above a fire, air almost solid and shimmering as something invisible stroked it.

“She is Prime ,” the Shield said, quietly, as if that should be explanation enough. “And she does not suffer fools gladly.”

“Well, I could see that.” Clare stamped on his jacket once or twice more, to make certain it would not combust, and picked it up. Shook it out, shrugged into it. His hat had flown away; he found it in the ruins of the straw pallet. He glanced through the hole in the wall as he did so, but the uncertain light permitted no disclosing of its secrets. It was an oubliette; it might as well have been a painted-black circle. “Miss Bannon? Miss Bannon. If you please, we should be going now.”

The yellow-eyed man inhaled sharply, but when Clare glanced up, he saw the sorceress had regained her composure. She clutched at her shoulder as if it had been re-injured, and red sparks revolved in her dilated pupils for a moment before winking out.

“You’re quite right.” Curiously husky. “My thanks, Mr Clare. Mikal, let us be gone from here at once.”

“The sorcerer—” Clare did not relish the thought of giving her the news, but it had to be said.

For nothing remained of Llewellyn Gwynnfud but a rag of flesh and charred, twisting bone splinters, still trapped inside the circle of blue flame and heavy, rippling shifting.

“Appears dead, of course.” She inhaled sharply and sagged, and the yellow-eyed man apparently judged her temper safe enough, for he stepped forward and took her arm again. As soon as he did, Bannon swayed further, the tension leaving her. “And good riddance. Though I suspect he did not think they would deal with him in quite this manner.”

They? “Which manner would that be?” Clare enquired, as Mikal ushered the sorceress to the door and glanced out into the hall.

“As bait.” Miss Bannon’s tone was passing grim. “Now they know I am at their heels, and in no uncertain fashion. Mikal?”

He all but dragged her along. “I hear footsteps. Out the same way we entered, and step lightly.”

Miss Bannon, however, swayed drunkenly, her chestnut hair slipping free of pins. “I … I cannot …”

Her eyes rolled up, their whites glaring, and she went completely limp. The Shield did not pause, simply swept her up in his arms and cast a grim glance at Clare. “She has exhausted herself.”

“Quite,” Clare agreed as he followed, out into the hall. Bedlam was alive with screams and moans, a ship rocking on a storm sea of lunacy. “How long has she been baying at foxes in this manner?”

“Since before dawn yesterday; no sleep and very little food. Before that, a week’s worth of work.”

Clare jammed his hat more firmly on to his head. “That does not surprise me. Where are we bound?”

“For home.” And the man would say no more.

Dawn rose over Londinium like thunder. Tideturn roiled through the streets, every witch and sorcerer, not to mention the charmers and sparkpickers, pausing to allow the flood to fill them. The Tide flowed up the river, spread through the streets with dawn’s struggling glow through a curtain of soot, and Emma half woke for long enough to turn over, lost in her own familiar bed. She struggled to rise through veils of half-sleep, but even though Tideturn replenished sorcerous energy, she had abused her other resources far too thoroughly, and sleep dragged her back down.

When her eyes would finally open, she was greeted by her own room, dimly lit, the blue velvet curtains tightly drawn and the ormolu clock on the mantel ticking away to itself. A softly shimmering ball of witchlight hung caged in silver over her vanity, brightening as she pushed herself up on her elbows and yawned.

Sensing her return to consciousness, the room quivered. She made a gesture, fingers fluttering, and the drapes slowly pulled back, the charm on them singing a low humming note of satisfaction. Filmy grey Londinium light spilled through the window. The house resonated, its mistress awake, and she heard footsteps in the hall.

“ Bonjour! ” Severine trilled, sweeping the door open. Her plump face opened wide in a sunny smile, and her starched cap was shockingly white. “ Chocolat et croissant pour ma fille .” Her skirts swept the royal-blue carpeting, and her eyes danced with good humour. The indenture collar rested against her throat, a soft foxfire gleam, the powdery surface of the metal lovingly polished.

One could tell a great deal about a servant from the state of their collar. And an indenture provided a degree of status; it meant References and certain legal rights. Most sorcerers above Master level could and did engage only indentureds; it was a question of safety and loyalty.

There were other, darker reasons for such a preference, but Emma preferred not to think upon them. Not in the morning, at least. She stretched, wincing as several muscles twinged. “ Bonjour , Severine. Has your goddaughter had her baby yet?”

“Not yet, not yet.” Fragrant steam rose from the silver tray balanced in her plump paws, and behind Severine trooped Catherine and Isobel, lady’s maids both scrubbed clean and cheerful. The scar tracing down Isobel’s face was responding very well to the new fleshstitching treatment, and Emma nodded as they both dropped a curtsy. “ Monsieur le bouclier is in the salle with our guest. Such a breakfast they had, too! Cook shall have to send out for more ham.”

“I leave that in Cook’s capable hands.” Emma yawned again and slid free of the bed. Everything on her ached, and her hair felt stiff with grime. “Isobel, my dear, draw me a bath. Catherine, something dowdy today, I am going through dresses at an alarming rate.”

“The green silk’s fair done for, mum.” Catherine’s fair freckled face pinched in on itself as soon as she’d spoken, her collar glowing as well. She often flinched at the end of a sentence, despite the indenture here being relatively easy. Or at least, Emma thought it should be regarded as comparatively easy. Mistreated underlings stood a higher chance of being disloyal underlings even with the insurance of a collar; she had seen enough of indenture to know that .

Catherine had come to her Without Reference, and Severine had much protested indenturing a girl who had no papers. Finch had been against the notion too.

But they were not the mistress at 34½ Brooke Street. Catherine’s doglike fidelity and skill with a needle – she was a sempstress of no mean ability, so much that Emma suspected her of a limited needle-charmer’s talent, though not enough sorcery to make it illegal to indenture her – not to mention her untiring capacity for work, had proven said mistress right in this instance.

Had she been proven wrong, she was more than capable of punishing the transgressor in her own fashion.