The Iron Wyrm Affair

familiar tang of sorcery, a faint hint of maleness underneath.

It was useless. The pointless urge, once more, rose in her throat. This time she did not bar it. “Thrent,” she whispered. “Jourdain. Harry. Namal.”

“They betrayed you.” Intimate, the touch of air against her ear. She shivered, swaying again, but he didn’t touch her. “That was why they died.”

Tall, dark Thrent. Small, blond, agile Jourdain. Harry with his smile, Namal with his gravity.

“They did not betray me. He killed them.” The last name. She licked her dry, smoke-tarnished lips, said it to rob it of power: “Miles Crawford.”

“He hurt you.” So soft. “So he died. And they allowed themselves to be taken by surprise; their betrayal was in their carelessness. I would have murdered them myself for it, if he had not.”

They eliminated the rest of his Shields while Crawford sprang his trap on me. It was my fault, of course. I judged myself too highly. “Very comforting.” But her breath caught. He leaned a little closer, the almost-touch paradoxically, exquisitely more intimate than his fingertips could ever hope to be.

“You know what I am.” A mere breath.

I am not certain at all. “I have my suspicions.”

And there was the other reason to mistrust him. For there were certain troubling things she had observed in her Shield, and if her suspicions were correct, the ease with which he had throttled Crawford was a dire sign indeed.

“Easy enough to prove.”

“What if I prefer them to remain suspicions?” Her voice did not sound like her own. It lacked utterly the bite Emma was accustomed to putting behind each word.

“You cannot abide mysteries, Prima. It is,” he finally touched her, warm fingers sliding under the half-awry mass of her hair, stroking her nape, “a small weakness.”

That you have no idea of my other weaknesses is a very good thing. She raised her chin, pushed her shoulders back, and stepped firmly away from Mikal’s hand. “Thank you, Shield. You may retire.”

His hand fell to his side. “Do you wish me to sleep at your door like a dog?”

Would you? How charming. Her shoes were filthy; she had tracked cinderfall and God alone knew what else into the house. The maids would have a time of it in the morning. Another dress ruined, too, and sending a bill to Grayson was not likely to gain her any remuneration.

And unless she wished to ring a bell and wake someone to help her undress, Mikal would. It was, after all, part of a Shield’s function to act as valet – or lady’s maid, as the case may be.

“D—n your eyes.” Unladylike, yes. But her flesh crawled, and her temper had worn thin.

“Is that a yes or a no?” He even sounded amused, blast him to the seventh Hell of Tripurnis.

Her only answer was to tack for her bedroom. Her bedraggled skirts were lead blankets, her bloomers chafed, and she would have had a special demise planned for her corset, had she not been so utterly exhausted. Let him do as he pleased. She was far too tired to care.

Or so she tried to tell herself, as she heard his footsteps behind her.

Chapter Twenty-One Becoming Acquainted

Tideturn came slightly after dawn, filling the city with humming expectancy. The fog had not lifted, and there was no steady rain to keep it in check, just a few flirting spatters every now and again. The city smelled venomous, an odour that penetrated even Miss Bannon’s sorcerously sealed dominion.

Despite that, breakfast was, as Clare had come to expect, superlative. The only dimming of his enjoyment came from the presence of the pox-scarred Neapolitan, who strolled in with great familiarity and proceeded to show terrible manners. The man’s nails were no longer caked with filth, and he had somewhere found a respectable black wool waistcoat and a flashboy’s watch chain, as well as a stickpin with a small, vile purple gem of no worth whatsoever. His high-collar shirt was of fine quality, but he still looked almost like a carter uneasy with high company. It was, the mentath decided, a carefully chosen façade.

Valentinelli’s boots had belonged to a gentleman once, and Clare found himself engaging in unsupported speculation about how they had found their way to the Neapolitan’s clumping feet.

The man could, Clare thought, walk lightly as a cat. He was choosing not to, stamping around the exquisite Delft-and-cream breakfast room. The soothing jacquard of the blinds was probably wasted on the assassin, who gave the room a single glance – rather as a general would take in the terrain – and grunted at Clare, before loading a plate with all manner of provender and leering at one of the maids. Who simply ignored him with a toss of her honeybrown head.

Clare took this to mean she had some prior experience of the man.

Very interesting indeed.

Valentinelli filled his mouth with sausage, crammed in an egg, and chewed with great relish. He slurped his tea, wiping his fingers on the fine waistcoat – all the while standing between two potted palms whose charmed crystal cover-globes sang a wandering, tinkling melody. Clare studied him for a few more moments, sipping his tea meditatively and nibbling at kippers on toast. The furniture here was surprisingly light and ladylike. From the size of the two small tables, Miss Bannon usually breakfasted alone.

Madame Noyon had left him to it after pouring tea; most likely she was attending to Miss Bannon’s morning toilette and the business of running the house according to her employer’s wishes. The breakfast table was of pale ash wood, its legs carved with water lilies and its cloth stunning white; the breakfast plate was delicate silver and stamped with a swan under a lightning bolt. Very Greque of the woman, indeed.

Clare crunched the last of his kippers and toast, washed it down with heavily lemoned tea, and decided to hazard a throw.

“I say, signor. You have quite the noble carriage.”

The Neapolitan gave him one swift, evil glance. He took another huge bite of sausage, let his mouth fall open while chewing. His scarred cheeks had turned pale.

Clare dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “It is marvellously interesting that you are not a natural at rudeness. You were trained in fine manners. Your habit of performing the exact opposite of those manners gives you away.”

A flush touched the Neapolitan’s neck. Clare smiled inwardly. It was so satisfying to deduce correctly.

“A Campanian nobleman? Your accent, which you take pains to disguise, is too refined for anything else. But you left your homeland young, signor. You have adopted the English method of slurping tea, and you wear the watch chain as a costume piece instead of as a true hevvy or a carter would. And though you are no doubt very good with a dagger, it is the rapier that is your true love. Yours is an old house, where such things are still a mark of honour.”

The Neapolitan grunted. His muscle-corded shoulders were tense.

Clare was actually— Was he? Yes. He was enjoying himself. The man presented a solvable puzzle, not without its dangers but well worth a morning’s diversion.

“Very well then, keep your secrets.” He considered another cup of tea, tapping his toe lightly. “This morning we shall go a-visiting. A friend of mine, or rather a close acquaintance. His is a respectable address; you may find yourself bored.”

The Neapolitan swallowed a wad of insulted provender. When he spoke, it was in the tones of a wearied upper-class Exfall student, complete with precisely paced crispness on the long vowels. “If you keep talking, sir, I shan’t be bored at all. Disgusted, perhaps, but not bored.” No trace of Italy marred the words – the mimicry was near perfect. He grimaced, his tongue showing flecks of chewed sausage and crumbs