The Iron Wyrm Affair

have ended as a drab herself, in the very slums she had been hunting through this afternoon.

“Southwark,” she heard herself say. “We are visiting Mehitabel.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing her Shield pale before she swept past him and through her study doors.

Chapter Fourteen The Wark and the Werks

Clare offered his hand, but the sorceress put no weight on it as she climbed into the hansom, her petticoats oddly soundless.

“All the same, my good man, one shouldn’t have to throw oneself into the street to attract a driver’s attention.” Clare looked back at the house – it appeared dark, closed up for the night, the gates to the front walk locked by invisible hands.

“I stops for my fares, I does.” The driver’s gin-blossomed nose and cheeks all but glowed in the ruddiness of dusk. The sun was sinking quickly, and the fog was rising. A regular Londinium pea-souper, creeping up the Themis. “You won’t find no one else willin t’take you half-crost that bridge, no sir. Not Southwark, this close to Turn. Right lucky you are.”

“Very lucky indeed, especially since we’re paying double fare.” The man was no use for deductive purposes; he was a cockerel Cockney with a war wound to his left leg, reeking of gin and married to a Stepney woman who tied the traditional ribbon in his buttonhole.

“Mr Clare.” The sorceress leaned forward. Her swelling and bruising had gone down remarkably, and a crease of annoyance lingered on her forehead. “Cease arguing with the man and get into the carriage.”

He complied, the door banged shut, and the heaving brass flanks of the clockhorse crackled under the whip. Altered horse and Altered flashboy, his brain whispered. There is no connection, do be reasonable.

He was uneasy. It was the gryphons at the table, of course. Irrationality bothered him as it would bother any mentath. That was all.

No, it is not. You haven’t enough information. Simply be patient. It was hard to be patient, he acknowledged, when Miss Bannon so assiduously avoided the subject of the mutilations of unregistered mentaths.

That hit a trifle close to home, so to speak.

Mikal had disappeared, though Clare suspected further trouble would bring his reappearance. The Shield no longer looked grey and drawn, though grim enough, and the sorceress was still pale, wincing slightly when she had to move in certain ways. The wound could very easily have proved deadly.

I did not kill him, she had hurriedly said, as if he would suspect such a thing. The mental drawer bearing Miss Bannon’s name had turned into a large bureau with several nooks and crannies. She was doing far more to keep his faculties exercised than the conspiracy.

Which was beginning to take on some troubling characteristics in its own right, to be sure.

The hansom jolted, Miss Bannon swayed into him, and Clare murmured an apology. “Close quarters.”

“Indeed.” She was rather alarmingly white, her curls swinging. “Mr Clare, I have not been entirely open with you.”

“Of course. You are not entirely open with anyone, Miss Bannon. You have learned not to be.”

“Another deduction.”

“Have you read my monograph, madam? Deduction is my life. Any mentath’s, really, but mine especially.” He permitted himself a sardonic raise of the eyebrows, glanced at her, and was gratified to find a slight smile. “I deduce you are more irritated with your own ill luck than with me or your Shield. I deduce you were an orphan, and your early life taught you the value of luxury. I further deduce this ‘conspiracy’ is actually a disagreement over a certain item mentaths have been engaged in—”

“Wait.” She cocked her head, lifting one gloved hand, and shivered. Clare consulted his pocket watch.

Tideturn.

Charter symbols, glowing gold, crawled over her skin. Her jewellery boiled with sparks, the cameo becoming a miniature lamp, filling the cab’s interior with soft light. Clare watched, fascinated, as the charter symbols dove into her flesh, stray sorcery dust puffing from the folds of her dress and winking out of existence in mid-air. Fresh charter-charm marks appeared, a river of runic writing coating her.

Miss Bannon exhaled, sharply, and the lights faded. She shook her fingers, and sparks popped. One of the clockhorses neighed, and the cab jolted. “Much better,” she muttered, and turned her dark eyes on Clare. There was no trace of the horrific bruising on her face and throat, and she did not flinch at another jolt. “You were saying. A certain item?”

“A certain item mentaths have been engaged in building, but in parts, so none of them knows the whole.” He tucked his watch away, carefully. Fresh linens of exceeding quality had magically appeared for him, and a permanent measuring charm had been applied to him and his clothes. The valet was, at least, dexterous and did not seek to engage him in superfluous conversation.

Miss Bannon’s hospitality was proving itself legendary in stature.

“Hm.” Neither affirming nor denying.

“An item Lord Grayson was deliberately kept somewhat unaware of.” Or you hope he is unaware. “Which means you have been involved with these mentaths for longer than they have been dying, and your orders come from another quarter indeed.”

“And who do you suppose could order me about, sir?” The cab lurched; she lifted her chin, but relaxed immediately. Clare’s stomach somersaulted, perhaps expecting a repeat of last night’s games.

“I have noted the royal seal on several items in your excellent library, which I availed myself of just before we left, and the statue of Britannia in your entry hall is of solid silver, as well as stamped with the royal imprimatur. No doubt you offered some great service and were given a token – but even if you had not been, you would have continued to serve. Your utterance of God and Her Majesty is sincere. And, one suspects, heartfelt.”

Her lips pursed. Her hands clasped together, lying decorously well bred in her lap. Despite the likely chill of the evening, she wore no shawl. She was hatless as well, despite his guess to the contrary. She perhaps expected an unpleasant event during which a bonnet would be a hindrance.

He did not find this a soothing observation.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the clopping of metal-reinforced hooves and the driver’s half-muffled cheerful catcalls as they turned south. Other hackney drivers responded, and the crowded streets around them were a low mumbling surf-roar. Just after Tideturn the city was a freshly yeasted, bubbling mass, especially near the Themis.

“Let us suppose you are to be trusted.” Miss Bannon peered through the window, watching the crowd whirl past. “What then?”

“Why then, Miss Bannon, we discover who has been killing sorcerers and mentaths, uncover the missing pieces of this item, learn who among Her Majesty’s subjects is treacherous enough to wish to steal this item and presumably use it against Britannia’s current incarnation, and—”

“Be home in time for tea?”

It took him by surprise, and his wheezing laugh did as well. He sobered almost instantly as the hansom slowed, swimming against the tide at the northern edge of the Iron Bridge. “One hopes.”

“Indeed. Then let us proceed with this understanding, Mr Clare: I am responsible for your safety, and I do not forgive disobedience or incompetence. You are relatively competent; may I trust you not to question?”

An exceedingly managing female. “Until further notice, Miss Bannon, you may. Provided your requests fall within the compass of my ability.”