Lilith Saintcrow - The Iron Wyrm Affair

Devon and his pair of Shields quit the room, and once they did, Mikal watched as his Prima stalked to the bookcase and pulled free three redrope folders, of the sort solicitors and barristers used. She checked them, one eye on Tomlinson’s stocky corpse, and suddenly fixed her own Shield with a searching gaze. “He is without his slippers, Mikal .”

She was correct. A pair of tattered woollen socks clasped the mentath’s limp feet .

“ And I cannot even question his shade, for that fool Devon has tangled everything beyond repair. Come, Mikal. We must examine the room and then seek out the Chancellor; there is something odd afoot .”

Masters the Elder, shot on Picksadowne Street between numbers 14 and 15½; there were no witnesses to speak of. Certainly there were onlookers, but none would swear to a description of the shooter. In that part of town, that was very little mystery. The mystery lay in what on earth Masters was doing there, and why he was shot three times – once to the heart, and two bullets shattering his skull. Which meant his shade could not be questioned either, Miss Bannon noted aloud to her Shield .

Very interesting indeed.

Smythe was stabbed near Nightmarket, just before Tideturn. Again, onlookers but no witnesses, and by the time Miss Bannon had arrived his body had been picked clean – and the ætheric traces were smudged as well. It could have been by the pickers; rare was the corpseduster who wished to be found guilty of such a thing .

The sorcerer set to watch Smythe, a certain Mr Newberry, was nowhere to be found. Miss Bannon had commanded Mikal to stand guard over the body and disappeared into the nearby alley, emerging startlingly pale. She did not grant him leave to view the alley for himself, but he did see bodies carried forth from it when help arrived .

He could not swear they were Shields, yet …

Throckmorton’s house was still blazing when they arrived. Miss Bannon had quelled the fire with surprising difficulty, sorcery fuelling the twisting flames and fighting her control. A crimson salamander, its forked tongue flickering white-hot, had launched itself at Mikal’s Prima, and he had killed it. Its ashes, treated with vitae, glowed blue, proving it had been controlled. Which made the fire sorcerous in origin, and the entire chain of events began to take on a disturbing cast. Throckmorton’s corpse was corkscrewed and charred, flesh hanging in ribbons. Either the salamander had been feasting on his remains, or he had been tortured before his death .

Or both. The heat-shattered skull and cooked brain meant his shade could not be questioned either, and that put the sorceress in a fine mood as well .

The Prime who was to be watching the unfortunate Throckmorton, Llewellyn Gwynnfud, was found causing a scene in a Whitchapel brothel, gibbering and Shieldless, and transported to Bedlam by a contingent of nervous hieromancers. And then the first dead unregistered mentaths were found, their bodies terribly mutilated, and Miss Emma Bannon’s temper had passed beyond uncertain to downright combative .

She had begun, it seemed, to take something personally .

“Most interesting.” Clare relit his pipe. “And did Miss Bannon also search Throckmorton’s house?”

“Thoroughly. What little was left of it.”

Mutilated if unregistered. How unpleasant . His skin briefly chilled, and he set the thought aside. There were other questions to answer first. “And … you will pardon my asking, but what is Miss Bannon’s Discipline? Every sorcerer has a Discipline, correct?”

Mikal nodded. His straight-backed posture was the same, but his face had eased slightly. “Yes.”

“And Miss Bannon’s is …”

Mikal’s mouth turned into a thin straight line.

Do not insult my intelligence . “Oh come now, man. If I had not guessed her to be one of the Black, I would have to be thick indeed. A sorcerer does not so cavalierly mention questioning shades unless their Discipline overlaps with the Black, correct?”

It was not so outré a guess. Sorcerers were not overly social, but Miss Bannon seemed standoffish even by their standards. She behaved as a woman who was accustomed to having others fear her, and Cedric Grayson had turned pale and sweating. The three branches of sorcery were supposedly all equal, but whispers swirled about the Grey, and swirled even further about the Black. Nothing concrete, certainly … but something could be inferred even from rumour.

Another small, grudging nod from the Shield.

Clare had to restrain a sigh. “I am not one of the callow multitudes, Mr Mikal. Logic dictates that the service of Britannia’s incarnation must hold those the common man perceives to be dangerous. Miss Bannon may be exceeding dangerous, but she is not an ogress, and she does not represent a danger to me . I ask about her Discipline only to clarify a point or two to myself and to found my chain of deduction on solid—”

“She is of the Black.” Mikal propelled himself to his feet. “There. You know now, mentath. Tread carefully. She is my Prima . If you threaten her, I shall find ways to make you regret it.”

Threaten her? Clare lowered his pipe. “Who was Crawford?” The name was common, but something nagged at his memory. A recent scandal, perhaps?

The colour drained from Mikal’s face, leaving him ashen under the copper. His eyes lit, venomous yellow irises glowing. One hand twitched, a subtle movement.

Clare tensed. He was no match for the Shield, but the sorceress’s orders were for Clare to be unharmed.

At least, he assumed those were her orders. The threat of some dire consequence that would leave Clare physically unmarked was not to be taken lightly.

“Crawford.” The ghost of an accent tinted the word. “He was the first man I killed for her.” Mikal’s tongue darted out, wetted his thin lips. “He was not – and shall not be – the last.”

And with that, the Shield stalked across the room, swept the door open, and stepped into the hall. He would stand guard there, probably the better to keep his temper.

Dead, then. This requires thought . Clare puffed on his pipe. A slight smile played about his mouth. A very successful chain of deduction, far more data than he’d had before, and much was now clearer about Mikal the Shield.

What an extraordinarily diverting morning this was proving to be.

Tideturn had laid smoking gossamer fabric over the traces of the ætheric protection on last night’s luckily escaped assassin. Emma clasped her hands before her, lowering her head as she concentrated, invisible threads singing as she handled them so, so delicately. There was joy to be found in the complexity of such an operation, her touch deft and quick.

Like the scales on a butterfly’s wings, the imprint of a sorcerer’s work on the fabric of the visible world fluttered. Her memory swallowed the pattern whole, comparing it to the thick ætheric tangles laid over Llewellyn Gwynnfud last night.

There was no overlap. Well, it was hardly a surprise that more than one sorcerer was involved in this.

The climax of last night’s events bothered her, though. She should have been able to guess the irregularities in the charm and charter symbols would act so vigorously, and perhaps taken steps to keep Llewellyn alive for further questioning.

But you did not, Emma. Was it because the thought of him dead did not distress you at all? It is rather a relief, isn’t it? Come now, be honest .

Well, if she had to be absolutely honest, she would have preferred snuffing Llewellyn’s candle herself. Yet another unfeminine trait. Or was the desire to be thorough and tidy so unladylike? Llew had been a loose end.