“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.
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
