The Iron Wyrm Affair

me mewed in your house with your Shield, then, not merely my safety.”

The barest flash of surprise crossed her bruised face. It looked as if someone had struck her violently, and also tried to throttle her. The marks were fading, her skin rippling a little as the ancient symbols of charter surfaced and dove beneath the paleness. Healing sorcery.

If he had not had such excellent digestion, the sight might have turned his stomach. Besides, it was ridiculous to let such a thing interfere with one’s repast.

“I did,” she admitted. “Though you must admit you are safest here, and—”

“Oh, tell him,” Mikal snarled. “You cannot trust me, so you wander out into Londinium and find yourself a knife to fall on.”

Clare was hard put to restrain a flash of most unbecoming glee at the rich new vistas of deduction that remark opened.

“If you will not let me eat my dinner in peace, Shield, you may wait in the hall.” But Miss Bannon did not sound sharp. Only weary.

The Shield leaned over her shoulder. “What if you had died, Prima? What then?”

“Then I would be spared this most unwelcome display at the table.” Miss Bannon gazed steadily at Clare. “My apologies, sir. My Shield forgets himself.”

“I do not forget.” Mikal planted himself solidly, folding his arms. The high carved back of Miss Bannon’s chair did nothing to blunt the force of the ire coming from him. “Such is my curse.”

“Should you truly wish a curse, Mikal, continue in this manner.” Miss Bannon sampled her soup. Finch appeared, his thin arms bearing a tray with decanters; he busied himself at the sideboard. The footmen came and went, serving with clockwork precision and muffled feet. One of them was missing his left smallest finger, quite an oddity. “Mr Clare. Tomlinson and Smythe were given different … pieces, as it were, of a puzzle. They seemed to be very near to a solution in their respective ways. Masters and Throckmorton were apparently given parts of those separate puzzle pieces, and—”

You are telling me a carefully chosen tale, which probably bears only kissing relation to the truth. “I have the idea, thank you. What were they researching?” And why were the unregistered mentaths mutilated? You avoid that subject with much alacrity, Miss Bannon.

“If I were at liberty to disclose that, Mr Clare …” She needed say no more.

“Very well.” He turned his attention to the soup, momentarily, while deductions assumed a different shape inside his skull. “That rather materially changes things. You are aware of the nature of this puzzle; Lord Grayson is now too. Which means the Chancellor is suspected, or your orders are from another quarter, or—”

“Or I am a part of the conspiracy, keeping you alive for my own nefarious reasons. Mr Finch? I require rum. Shocking at dinner, but my nerves rather demand it. Mikal, either sit down at the place laid for you, or go out into the hall. I will not have this behaviour at dinner.”

“I prefer to wait upon you, my Prima.” It was a shock to see a grown man so mulishly defiant, like a child expecting a spanking.

“Then you may wait in the hall.” The dishes rattled, the table shifted slightly, and the plants whispered under their charm domes. Clare applied himself more fully to his soup.

The Shield pulled out the chair to Miss Bannon’s left – the right was reserved for Clare – and a servant hurried forward. Finch brought a carafe and a small crystal glass, poured something Clare’s sensitive nose verified was indeed rum, and Miss Bannon quaffed it smoothly, as if such an operation was habitual.

Some colour came back into her face – natural colour, not the garishness of bruising. “Thank you, Finch. I shall relate to you the most interesting portions of my day, Mr Clare, since your digestion is so sound, and you shall analyse what I tell you.”

“Very well.” Clare settled in his chair. The gryphon-carved table legs chose to still themselves, which was a decided improvement. What she told him now would be as close to the truth as she could risk.

She wasted little time. “Last night a single one of our attackers escaped. I meant to trace his whereabouts after we visited Bedlam, but it was not possible. However, had I not waited for daylight, today’s events might have gone in a very different direction. In any case, I found our attacker had received a protection from a certain sorcerer I am familiar with. I visited said sorcerer’s domicile in Whitchapel and received the information that the man – a flashboy, if you are familiar with the term?”

“A man of the lower classes. One who has been Altered. Specifically, a type of petty criminal who takes it as a point of pride.” Such men were dangerous. If the Alteration did not make them unstable, the crime they were steeped in would do so. Their tempers were notoriously nasty, and by all accounts extraordinarily short.

And Miss Bannon had ventured alone into the sink of filth, danger and corruption that was Whitchapel. Most intriguing.

“Precisely.” Miss Bannon gave a nod of approval, drained another small glass of rum, and the roast chicken was brought in. “I received the information that our flashboy had arrived, requested a protection, paid, and left.”

“Exactly how much did he pay?”

“Two gold sovereigns, a guinea, and fivepence. One rather gets the idea he was pressed for time, and that he had so much as a mark of faith from his employer.”

“It being Whitchapel,” Clare observed, “the fivepence was no gratuity.”

“No, the sorcerer squeezed for every farthing the flashboy was willing to part with. In any case, I found the flashboy’s doss and persuaded him to give some information before he attacked me. I defended myself – I did not kill him – and in the process, a truly terrible amount of sorcery was triggered on him.” She eyed Clare speculatively, and her colour was indeed better. She set to the roast chicken with a will, and Clare copied her example. “It was old sorcery, the same practitioner as last night’s event in Bedlam. Our flashboy was no sorcerer, so it … the force tore him apart. It was intended to not only do so but also incapacitate any sorcerous visitor so his employer could discover any meddling in his business.”

“His?”

“I find it extraordinarily unlikely this is a woman, sir.”

Clare was inclined to agree, but Mikal could apparently stand it no longer. The Shield stared at the chicken on his plate, the potato balls drenched in golden butter, the scattered parsley, as if it were a mass of writhing snakes. “Injured you? Stabbed you in the lung, and—”

“Do not interrupt, Mikal.” A line had appeared between Miss Bannon’s arched eyebrows. “I am sure Mr Clare is aware of the extent of my injuries. So, mentath, your analysis, if you please.”

Clare sampled a potato ball. Most excellent. “I have been reading the papers today. Your hospitality is wonderful, Miss Bannon. The Encyclopaedie was also useful, though I may need some other texts—”

She waved a hand, her rings sparkling. Fire opals this time, two of them set in heavy bronze and surrounded by what appeared to be tiny uncut diamonds. “Merely inform Mr Finch of your requirements. Analysis, please.”

“You will not like it.”

“That does not detract from its validity.”

“You are a very managing female, Miss Bannon.”

Thus ensued a very long silence as Clare’s utensils made tiny noises against his plate. The ham arrived and was dealt with, a dish of haricots verts in a sauce full of lemony tang as well. No oysters, but he did not feel stinted.

It took until the sherbet for him to notice the uncomfortable quality of the silence. At least, a normal person might have called it uncomfortable. It was heavy, cold, and almost … reptilian. The gryphons carved into the table legs shifted, the table’s surface completely level and the fluid motion underneath almost enough to unseat even his stomach.

The illogic of it bothered him. A table should not move so.

“My analysis—” he began.

“Is that I am a ‘managing female’?” Miss Bannon enquired, almost sweetly. The tone alarmed him, and he diverted his attention from the exquisite bone-china sherbet dish.

He was right to be alarmed, for he noted Mikal had tensed. The Shield’s head was up, and he stared at the sorceress with the leashed expectation of a bloodhound. The sorceress, her curls falling forward, toyed with a small silver spoon, tracing patterns through melting lemon sherbet.