Lilith Saintcrow - The Iron Wyrm Affair

And what an appearance that had been.

The man Mikal was still a puzzle. Clare settled in a chair next to the fire and lit his pipe, puffing thoughtfully. He was ready to turn his entire attention to the problem of the Shield, but there was a tap at the door.

A pleasure foregone was enough to irritate him at the moment. “Enter!”

The door opened and the Shield appeared, his yellow eyes flaming and his entire body stiff. “I hesitate to disturb—” he began, but Clare brightened and waved him further into the room.

“Come in, come in! You will do for a half-hour at least. Is Miss Bannon gone?”

“I saw her to the door.” The man’s jaw set, and Clare deduced he was most unhappy with this turn of events. It was, from what he could remember, not at all usual for a sorcerer, especially a powerful Prime, to set foot outside without a Shield or three, or more.

Of course, what Clare knew of sorcery was little more than the average man would. It did not do to think too much on the illogical feats such people were capable of performing. On the other hand, a surface study of such things would have armed him with enough to make workable deductions about Miss Bannon’s character.

Let us test the waters . “No doubt you can tell me her true motivation in leaving the pair of us mewed here.” He took a mouthful of smoke, tasted it speculatively, and almost smiled at the sensation. Mentaths did not feel as others did; logic was the pleasure they moved towards, and irrationality or illogic the pain they retreated from. Emotions were to be subdued, harnessed, accounted for and set on the shelf of deduction.

Privately, Clare had decided that few mentaths were completely emotionless. They simply did not account fully for Feeling, it being easier to see the occlusion in a subject’s gaze than in their own. It was simply another variable to guard against, watch for, and marvel at the infinite variety of.

“She thinks to protect you.” The Shield lowered himself into the chair across the fire, sat bolt upright, his hands resting on his knees. His long grey coat, buttoned all the way to the neck, did nothing to hide the muscle underneath. Outside the window, Londinium continued its morning roil under a blue spring sky lensed with coal-smoke fog. Shafts of smoke and steam rose; the note of copper from the Themis told Clare there would be clouds by afternoon and fog tonight. “Since the Queen, via Lord Grayson, consigned you to her care.”

“Fetching concern,” Clare murmured, puffing on his pipe, his eyes half lidding. The mournfulness of his features was accentuated by this manoeuvre. “Tell me, Mr Mikal—”

“Just Mikal.” The man’s chin lifted slightly.

Aha. Jealous of our pride, are we? “Mr Just Mikal, how many Shields does a sorcerer of Miss Bannon’s stature – that is to say, a Prime – normally employ?”

Mikal considered this. His short hair was mussed, as if he had run his hands through it. When he visibly decided the information could do no harm, he finally responded. “A half-dozen is the normal minimum, but my Prima keeps her own counsel and does as she pleases. She had four Shields some time ago, and … well. It is a dangerous occupation.”

“Four Shields. Before you?”

“Yes.” Mikal’s face visibly closed. Clare could almost hear the snap. Most interesting.

“And she has been chasing this conspiracy …”

“Three days. Sir. Since she was called to examine a mentath’s body in situ —”

“That would be Tomlinson, I take it. The first to die.”

“The first she was called to examine.” Those yellow eyes glittered. Their colour seemed much more pronounced now, as the Shield gave Clare his attention.

Very good. You are not stupid, nor do you assume much . “Your lady suspects there must be more.”

“She has not seen fit to share her thoughts with me.”

Well. This is a pleasant game . “We will get exactly nowhere should you continue being obstreperous.”

“Or should you continue seeking to bait me.”

An extraordinary hypothesis presented itself. Clare held his silence for a long moment, puffing at his pipe. Hooves and wheels rumbled outside through the city’s arteries, an ever-present muted Londinium song. “You do not trust me.”

A single shrug.

“It has occurred to you – or perhaps to Miss Bannon – that a mentath, or more than one, may be involved in this conspiracy not just as a victim, but as a conspirator.”

Another shrug.

Well. You are even less stupid than I initially supposed . “May we at least for the moment proceed under the assumption that I am not, supported by the evidence that I have been almost murdered in the past twenty-four hours?”

A grudging nod.

Well, that’s half the distance to Noncastel . “Many thanks, sir. So. Start at the beginning, and tell me what occurred from the moment our dear sorceress was called from her usual work – which no doubt involved driving herself to exhaustion – to the scene.”

Mikal gazed at him for a long moment. Thoughts moved behind that yellow gaze, and the planes of his face took on a sharper cast. “My Prima was called to a house at Elnor Cross; she arrived to find the body of a mentath and fading marks of sorcery. The attending forensic sorcerer had blurred several traces and my Prima was in a fine mood—”

“No, no.” Clare waved his pipe. Sweet smoke drifted, taking angular shapes as if it sensed the tension radiating from the other man. His colouring was not nearly dark enough to be Tinkerfolk, Clare decided. Indus, most likely, but the shape of his cheekbones was … odd. “The house , first. Precisely where is it located? Give me the street address and the number of rooms, then describe to me which room the body was in. Then you will give me the name of the sorcerer, and only then proceed to our Bannon’s arrival and what transpired then.”

Mikal blinked. “You wish for a Recall, then?”

How very interesting . “A Recall?”

“A sorcerer may need to use a Shield’s eyes. There are two ways of doing so, a Glove and a Recall. We are trained to observe and offer only what we have observed. That is Recall.”

The fascinating question of just what a “Glove” consisted of could occupy him another time, Clare decided. “Very well, then. May I question you during the process, or must I save my questions for afterwards?”

A single economical movement. “Save them. You do not know how to question properly.”

I doubt you would teach me to do so, sir . Clare puffed on his pipe again. The tobacco was fine, and for a moment he considered a fraction of coja to sharpen his faculties. Discarded the notion – for if he paused, he suspected Mikal might think better of this offer. “Very well. Proceed when you are ready, sir, and I shall pay most close attention.”

Tomlinson was found slumped in a heavy armchair, his dressing jacket unwrinkled, no visible sign of foul play. It seemed a routine case of apoplexy – not common in mentaths, but also not unheard of, the logical patterns of the brain snarling and melting, stewing in irrationality. Tomlinson, however, was busy amid several cases that should have kept his faculties sufficiently exercised .

The attending Master Sorcerer, a certain Hugh Devon, seemed surprised when Miss Emma Bannon made her appearance as the Crown’s representative. He seemed even more surprised when she took him to task for smearing the delicate ætheric traceries rumbling and resonating inside the room: “Bumbling like an idiot; now we cannot rule out foul play! ”

At which point Mr Devon turned apoplectic-red himself, sputtered, and one of his Shields – a tall, lean blond man – stepped forward. Mikal had merely watched. Miss Bannon had arched one elegant eyebrow. “Leave.” Just the one word, but it cut through the other sorcerer’s sizzling and transformed the air in the overcushioned sitting room to ice .