Lilith Saintcrow: The Iron Wyrm Affair

They offered him something his ambition could not refuse . Emma shrugged. And now I am left wondering what my ambition cannot refuse. We are alike, Llew and I, more than even he suspected . “Who can tell? He was Throckmorton’s paymaster, that much is certain; the mentath kept that secret very well. Pity Valentinelli killed him, though I understand it was necessary. Was he truly bollixing about with Alterative sorcery, I wonder?”

Clare looked a trifle uncomfortable for a few moments. “Mad. He was utterly mad. Throckmorton, I mean. Oh. Mr Baerbarth sends his regards, by the way. He was quite put out that he could not examine one of the mecha at leisure.”

“Perhaps something can be arranged.” The core and the large logic engine, of course, had been moved in secret. It was only a matter of time before someone else created something similar, and Emma half suspected Clare’s first project as one of the Queen’s commissioned geniuses would have something to do with preparing the Empire for such an eventuality.

“He would be most pleased. Also, Signor Valentinelli—”

“Will cease following you very soon; if he visits tomorrow, I may release the binding on him.”

“Well, that’s just the thing.” Clare pinkened again. “He extends his regrets, but says he wishes no such thing. He rather likes the excitement, you see, though I’ve told him a mentath’s life is usually deadly boring. He says he has grown too old for his usual line of work, and I apparently need some looking after. He sounds like an old maiden aunt, frankly, and the sooner you send him on his merry way the better.”

“Ah.” Her mouth wanted to twitch. Oh, Ludo. You have ideas, I see . “Well. He did seem to have taken a liking to you.” She took a mannerly sip of tea, finding it had cooled most agreeably. The savouries looked very appetising indeed, and she was hungry again. It would take time to regain the lost weight.

“You mean, each time he threatens to duel me after your spell is taken off is a mark of affection? He is quite fond of that threat.”

“He must enjoy your company.” And that bears watching too . “How very droll.”

The conversation turned to other things, and Clare did his best to observe the pleasantries. It irked him, though, and she could see the irritation rising in him. After another cup and a few pastries he began the process of taking his leave. He had a question of research waiting for him at his lodgings, and regretted leaving her so soon, et cetera, et cetera.

It was no surprise, though she did feel a slight sting.

Emma rose, and offered her hand. “Mr Clare. Do be reasonable. You have endured much in the service of Britannia, and I thank you for your courage and the care you have shown for the Empire’s interests. You are under no social obligation to me. I know how sorcery … discommodes you.”

He took her hand, pumped it twice. He was outright crimson now. “Not the case,” he mumbled, swallowed visibly. “Not the case at all. Miss Bannon, you are … You are a …”

She waited, patiently. He did not turn loose her hand. There were many words he could choose. Sorceress. Bitch. Whore. Managing female .

He finally found one that suited him, drew himself up. “You, Miss Bannon, are a very logical sorceress.”

Her jaw threatened to drop. Of all the epithets flung at her, she had never experienced that one. A second, very queer lightness began in the region of Emma’s chest. “Thank you.”

He nodded, dropped her hand as if it had burned him, and turned to leave.

“Mr Clare.”

He stopped next to a false orange tree. The climate globe around it jangled sweetly. His thinning hair did not disguise the way the skin over his pate was even more deeply crimson.

Thankfully, she had a gift she could offer to match his own. “I trust your digestion is still sound?”

“As a bell, madam.” He did not turn to face her.

Emma took a deep breath. “May I invite you to dinner? Perhaps on Sunday? You may bring Ludovico, and Mr Baerbarth. If they wish to attend.” If they wish to avail themselves of my table without absolutely being required to do so. Odd. This is the first time that has occurred .

Clare turned, retraced his steps, grabbed her hand, and pumped it furiously. “I say! Of course! Honoured to. Honoured . Sig will be beside himself.”

“Sunday, then. Shall we say six? I dine early.”

“Certainly!” And after a few more furious pumps of her hand, he was gone. She closed her eyes, tracing his progress through the house. Mr Finch let him out of the front door, and by the time Clare reached the laurel hedge he was whistling.

She brought her attention back to the sunroom. Mikal would be along at any moment. Her hand had slid into her skirt pocket, and she drew forth the stone that had fallen from Llewellyn’s body. It had been on her nightstand when she awoke.

Had Mikal placed it there? Did he have any idea what it was?

It was deep red, flat on one side and curved on the other. Smooth and glassy, and when she tilted it, it throbbed. A pulse too deep for the stone’s shallowness, a slow, steady beat.

Like a dragon’s heart, perchance.

Two stones, and he was reserving one? One stone gifted to him in advance, one later? Or there was only one stone to begin with, and he was paid at the beginning? But how could they be certain he would do what they wished? And who among the wyrms would have slain one of their own young for this?

Who crafted that simulacrum in Bedlam?

She cupped the stone in her gloved hands. Its pulse slowed as it basked, drinking in the sunlight.

The gryphons were at his body. And should I visit Dinas Emrys now, I would find nothing but anonymous bones. Still … it troubles me .

Llewellyn Gwynnfud had always troubled her.

It was difficult to undo her bodice, but she managed. She slid the stone against the bare skin of her chest, tucking it securely under the top edge of her corset. Uncomfortable, but only temporary.

You are right, Mr Clare. There are quite a few unanswered questions .

She breathed out a long, slow, single sorcerous Word.

There was a melting sensation over her heart as the Philosopher’s Stone sank into her skin. A flush of warmth tingled through every particle of her flesh. Her head tipped back, and the solarium dimmed. The rush of flame in her veins was a welcoming heat, gentle and inviting.

In the end, she decided, it mattered little. She was Prime and in the service of Britannia, and if another wyrm raised its head, she would crush it underfoot.

Smiling, Emma Bannon set her bodice to rights, and decided on another cup of tea.

Minor:

Charter [1] The ability to draw a simple charter-symbol in charming is available even to the non-sorcerous. Those of very faint talent may perform the simplest of charter-symbols as long as said symbols are “married” to a physical item. A charmer must be able to hold a charter-symbol in free air for at least a few moments in order to be apprenticed; it is legal to indenture charters but not charmers or above. (lightfinger, bakewell)

Charmer (hedgecharmer, charing-charmer)

Mancer (hevvymancer, pickmancer)

Skellewreyn (not used past 1715 [2] The last Skellewreyn, the famous and rebellious Agnes Nice, was hung in 1712 in Hardwitch. Afterward, Skellewreyn – too much talent to be a mancer and not enough to be a properly-Disciplined witch, driven mad and physically twisted by their sorcery – did not appear, or if they did, they kept to certain shadows. Some of the Morloks are rumored to be of their ilk. )