The Iron Wyrm Affair

between her and the creature. “Perhaps. A wyrm’s word is a castle built on sand.”

“Or air.” The proud head lowered in a terrifying approximation of a nod. “You should have more Shields, sorceress.”

“I have as many as I require at the moment.” The ironwyrm would have had me, but for Mikal. And yet.

“We are many, and you are a tempting morsel.” A laugh like boulders grinding. “But we are sleepy, too. You should go now.”

I think so. For she noted the subtle tension in the beast’s forelimb, raven feathers shading into blue-black fur. “Thank you. Mr Clare, do come along.”

“A whole new area of study—” Clare, his sharp blue eyes positively feverish, stepped closer to the gryphon’s claw.

Mikal lunged forward. The wood of the stall door groaned, splintering, and the Shield yanked Clare back, tearing his already worse-for-wear frock coat. The gryphon’s claw closed on empty air, and the beast chuckled.

“Enough,” Mikal said, pleasantly. “Stand near my Prima.” He did not take his eyes from the beast. “That was unwise, skycousin.”

“He is a mere nibble anyway, and unseasoned.” The gryphon’s eyes half lidded. “No matter. Take them and go, Nágah. Safe winds.”

“Fair flying.” Mikal stepped back. “Prima?”

“This way, Mr Clare.” She made her hands unclench, grabbed the mentath’s sleeve. “And do not pass too closely to the stalls.”

Clare did not reply. But he did not demur, either. When they finally eased free of the stable’s northern door and into the close-melting fog scraping the surface of the road and Greens Park beyond, Emma found she was trembling.

Chapter Nineteen For My Tender Person

Greens Park was utterly deserted, yellow fog turning impenetrable black in places, licking the lawns and tangled trees. This close to the Palace, the shadows were free of thieves and thugs. Such would not be the case in other Londinium parklands.

They walked a fair distance to reach Picksdowne, Clare muttering to himself about musculature for a good deal of the way. It was absolutely fascinating, and he found himself wondering what discoveries one could make if a gryphon corpse happened to appear in one’s workshop. He knew little of the beasts save that they were the only animals fit to draw Britannia’s carriage; their riders were highly trained officers, and there had been corps of gryphon-riders used as sky cavalry in the battles with the damned Corsican—

Beside him, Miss Bannon cleared her throat. She was occupied in seeking to restore the ragged mass of her gloves.

“Oh yes.” He had almost forgotten her presence, so intrigued was he by the glimpse of a new unknown. One that obeyed patterns, one that helped the hideous memory of Southwark recede. “There are things you no doubt wish to tell me, Miss Bannon.”

“Indeed.” Was there a catch in her voice? On her other side, the Shield stepped lightly, a trifle closer than was perhaps his habit.

The gryphons had severely shaken Miss Bannon. She was paper-pale, and her fingers nervously scrubbed themselves together while she sought to straighten her gloves. Still, she pressed onward over the gravelled walk, and her pace did not slacken. “What do you know of Masters the Elder? And Throckmorton?”

“Nothing more than their names: mentaths are acquainted with their peers only so far. I can surmise a great deal, Miss Bannon, but it is as the analysis you invited me to provide: a trap. Perhaps you should simply enlighten me.”

The amount of shaky grievance she could fit into a simple sigh was immense. “Perhaps I should. In any case, the Queen commanded—”

“And she is not here to enforce said command.”

A palpable hit, for she stiffened slightly before forging onwards, crisply and politely. “Pray do not insult me so, sir. Masters the Elder was engaged in building a core. Throckmorton had made a number of significant breakthroughs, and he and Smythe were brought together despite the danger. Certain advances were made.”

Maddeningly, she ceased her explanation there – or perhaps not maddeningly, for his faculties leapt ahead, devoured this new problem, and his nerves sustained another rather unpleasant shock, adding to the night’s already long list of unpleasantnesses.

“A core? Dear lady, you cannot possibly …” What was that cold feeling down his back? His jacket was ripped, certainly, but this was akin to dread. He noted the feeling, sought to put it aside.

It would not go.

“Throckmorton and Smythe, with Masters’s core, achieved the impossible.” She halted, but perhaps that was only because his feet had nailed themselves to the walk. Londinium’s fog pressed close, and the Shield’s gaze rested on his sorceress, yellow eyes lambent in the darkness. “A transmitting, stable, and powerful logic engine.”

The fog had perhaps stolen all the air from the park. Clare stepped back, gravel grinding under his much- abused boots. He stared at the sorceress, who could have no possible idea what she was saying. He actually goggled at her, his jaw suspiciously loose.

“Such an engine …” He wetted his lips, continued. “Such an engine is not impossible. Theoretically, mind you. Extraordinarily difficult and never successfully—”

“I am fully aware it has never been done before. I am no mentath, but I have certain talents as a facilitator and organiser; much scientific work for the Queen can be and is done quietly. I am responsible for arranging such things. The mentaths who have been lately killed were all, in one fashion or another, involved in the making of said engine. The others … well. I am of the opinion many were murdered because of a particular note Throckmorton made of the peculiar nature of logic engines. They require a mentath to utilise them.”

“Well, yes.” Clare shivered. He was not cold. An ordinary person seeking to run a logic engine would be turned into a brain-melted automaton, injured beyond repair by the amplification. Lovelace had been the first to survive the wiring to a very weak engine; several geniuses had assumed that if a woman could endure it, a man’s brain – even a non-mentath’s – would have little difficulty.

The resultant casualties had been thought-provoking, the scandal immense. Some said the scandal had contributed to Lovelace’s early death; others blamed the inefficiency of the engine – Babbage’s work, true, but perhaps not up to the standards one would have wanted. There was, in particular, one scathing little paper written by Somerville, vindicating her pupil at Babbage’s expense. Rare female mentaths were now required to be registered with the Crown as a result of the affair, and were wards of the Court until their marriages.

He heard his own voice, strangely strong and clear. “A … transmitting logic engine. Transmitting, I presume, to receiving engines. The amplification could save the trouble of murdering whatever mentath would wire himself to such a thing.” And the unregistered mentaths were mutilated. He could not shake himself of the exceedingly unpleasant thought.

“Tests were made, at the country house in Surrey. It performed spectacularly well, from what the assembled reported. The engine is useless without Masters’s core; I took the precaution of transporting the core to the Wark, where Mehitabel had agreed to hold it. Imagine my surprise when Masters and Smythe both turned up dead – they were not even supposed to be in Londinium. The engine has disappeared. Now it appears the core has disappeared as well.” She paused. “Her Majesty is worried.”

As well she should be. Dear God. “I presume you share her concern,” he muttered, numbly.

“Oh, I do. The Chancellor, your Yton friend, may be involved. Llewellyn might have been a part of the