The Iron Wyrm Affair

entrance of the Cross and Spaulders, their draggled finery sparking slightly with sartorial charms. Alterations gleamed – any flashboy worth the name would have an amendment, the more visible the better. One had a blackened clockwork hand that spat sparks from its hooked fingers, another a green-glass eye rolling in an exposed, bony socket. Cheap work, that, but this was Whitchapel.

Everything was cheap here. Including human life.

Already the sky was hazed – not nearly enough; the light speared through her skull. This would be so much easier after dusk.

It would be easier for Gippius too. So Emma blinked furiously, did not lift her handkerchief to her nose, and kept the subtle threads of glamour blending together. Some few of the slightly sorcerous on the street glanced at her once or twice, but she was Prime and they were merely sparks. They would not see what she truly was unless she willed it.

A venous network of alleys had grown around Thrawl, slumping tenements festooned with sagging laundry hung on lines despite the coal dust, refuse packed into corners. Children screamed and ran about, playing some game that made sense only to them, the slurring drawl of the Eastron End already evident in their joyous accents. Malnourished but agile, they were more problematic than the adults – sometimes a child’s gaze would pierce a glamour where even an Adept’s could not.

She found the rat’s nest of alleyways she was looking for, and plunged into welcome gloom. Some doors hung ajar, shadows flitting through them; a colourless vapour of gin and hopelessness rose. A baby cried, wheedling and insistent, somewhere in the depths of a building. A man crouched on a low step in front of a battered, dispirited wooden door. Muffled cries were heard from inside, and the man’s eyes followed Emma’s shadow as he peeled his nails with a short, wicked knife, taking care to palm the filthy clippings up to his mouth as an insurance against charming.

At the far end of the alley the abortionist’s door, studded with iron nails, grimaced. Emma braced herself and strode for it, her boots slipping a little against the crust coating the alley floor. No wonder Gippius had sunk into this quarter of the city – few constables would brave this hole.

Few sorcerers would, even.

Invisible strings quivered under the surface of the visible. The cameo warmed at her throat, and the ætheric protections in Gippius’s walls resonated slightly.

That is not a good sign. The door had no knob; she simply focused – and stepped through, a shivering curtain of glamour sparking and fizzing as her will shunted the river of charm and charter aside.

Gippius was quick and deadly, but he was not native. In his country, she would be the sorcerous stranger, and the resultant struggle might have had a different outcome. As it was, she flung out a hand, the Cossack who did a Shield’s duty for Konstantin stumbled back into a mound of clothing waiting for the ragpickers, and Emma’s other gloved hand made a curious tracing motion as she spoke a minor Word. Witchlight flared, and Konstantin Gippius stumbled back, clutching at his throat. A single line of chant, low and vicious, poured from Emma’s mouth, a fierce hurtful thrill of sorcery spilling through her, and the Cossack shrieked as ætheric bonds snapped into place over him.

The chant faded into the humming of live sorcery. Emma climbed to her feet, brushing off her dress. The Cossack’s shriek was cut short on a gurgle; she grimaced and made certain her bonnet was straight. The huge glass jars filling every shelf chattered and clattered together, the abominations inside twitching as dark, pudgy Gippius thrashed on the trash-strewn floor. He was turning a most amazing shade of purple.

“Behave yourself,” she said sternly, and flicked her fingers, releasing the silencing.

Gippius’s throat swelled with sound. Sorcery flashed towards her; she batted the venomous yellow darting coils aside and tightened her gloved fist, humming a low sustained note. The silencing clamped down again, the cameo a spot of scorch against her chest. “I said behave yourself, Gippius! Or I shall choke you to death and go a-traipsing through your house for what I wish.”

Spluttering, the Russian thrashed. His boots drummed the floor. When she judged she had perhaps expressed her seriousness in terms he could comprehend, she fractionally loosened her hold once again.

The abominations in the jars moved too, slopping their baths of amber solution against dusty glass. Tiny piping cries echoed, their large heads and tiny malformed bodies twitching. Metal clinked – some of them had been Altered. Gippius’s science was inefficient, and disgusting as well.

It is a very good thing I have a strong stomach. Emma eyed Gippius as he lay quiescent, glaring balefully. Greasy black hair hung in strings, sawdust from his rolling about griming the curls. A crimson spark lit in the backs of his pupils, but quickly dimmed and was extinguished as his face grew more and more plummy.

She eased the constriction, in increments. It took a good long while for his tortured gasps to even out, and the Cossack moaned to one side. Emma spent the time eyeing the jar-living abominations, examining the filthy curtain drawn to mark the entrance to Gippius’s surgery, the low sullen light of malformed witchballs sparking orange as they bobbed in cheap lantern-cages. The stove in the corner glowed sullenly as well, and the large pot bubbling atop it reeked of cabbage.

When she judged it safe enough, and further judged she had Konstantin’s entire attention, she drew the protection disc and its broken ribbon from her skirt pocket.

“Now,” she said quietly, for it did not do to shout if there was no need, “I am about to question you, Konstantin Serafimovitch. If you do not have proper answers – or if I even suspect any impropriety such as dishonesty in your answers – first I will kill your Cossack. If you continue to be remiss, I shall shatter all your jars. If you are still remiss, I shall be forced to make things very unpleasant for your corpus.” She paused, let him absorb this. “And I do not have to cease when you expire, either.”

Now he was moaning as well. The counterpoint of male agony was almost musical.

She began working her gloves off, finger by finger, though her flesh crawled at the thought of touching anything in this hole with bare flesh. “Now. Let us start with this protection charm.”

Chapter Ten Tea and Data

Newspaper clippings scattered over the table, turned this way and that as he tested connections between them. Two volumes of the Encylopaedie stood open as well, a further three stacked on the chair, and he paced between the fireplace and the window. More papers, covered with his cramped handwriting, fluttered as he passed the table. The desk was snowed under with a drift of notes and more volumes.

Occasionally he stopped, running his hands through thinning hair. His pipe had long since gone out.

“The connections,” he muttered, several times. “I must have more data!”

He had endured the visit from Mr Finch, interrupting his research with idiocy about linens and a valet, and further endured the measuring-charms and queries of the footman chosen to do valet duty. His freshly laundered linens, sent by an obliging Grayson, had been delivered and stowed away. Then, thankfully, they had left him in peace – what peace there was, for he was beginning to be sorely pressed.

The door resounded under a series of knocks, and when it opened, the Shield took in the explosion of paper and Clare’s pacing. “Tea,” he said, the single word as colourless as it was possible for a syllable to be. His mouth turned down at the corners, and he was actually grey under his copper hue. “In the conservatory.”

“That’s not where she takes her tea!” Clare cried, turning in a jerky half-circle. “I know that much! I am engaged on deducing much more. But there’s one piece, one critical piece – or maybe more than one. I cannot tell. I must have more data!”

Mikal’s features betrayed no surprise. Just that grey, set monotone. “My Prima takes her tea in her study, but you are a guest, and the conservatory is made avail—”

Clare halted, staring at him. “My God, man, you look dreadful.”

The Shield’s head dipped, a fractional nod. “Thank you. Tea, mentath. Come along.”

“Why do you—” Clare stopped short. His head cocked, the chain of deduction enfolding. “Surely you are not so