The Iron Wyrm Affair

of fried egg as he stuck it out as far as possible.

At that moment the door opened, and Miss Bannon appeared. There were faint smudges under her dark eyes, and she cocked her head as Clare rose hastily.

“Good morning. I see you two are becoming acquainted.” Today it was dark blue wool, a travelling dress. The jewellery was plain, too – another cameo at her throat, four plain silver bands on her left hand and a sapphire on her right ring finger, her earrings long jet drops that would have been vulgar had she been wearing mourning. A brooch of twisted fluid silver alive with golden charter-charms completed the ensemble, and her hatpins dangled short strings of twinkling blue beads. The hat itself, small, blue, and exquisitely expensive, sat at a jaunty angle on her dark curls. It was not a bonnet, and he was obliquely gladdened to see so. Aesthetically, this was far more pleasing.

“I am gratified to see you well, Miss Bannon. Good morning.”

The Neapolitan merely made a chuffing sound and buried his snout in more food.

“You seem to have disturbed Signor Valentinelli. Ludovico, do please come and sit down.” She moved across the room, betraying no stiffness or injury, but she winced slightly as she sank into a Delft-cushioned chair opposite Clare, who lowered himself back down and eyed the teapot.

Mikal appeared, tidy dark hair and a fresh high-collared coat of the same dark green velvet, his glove-boots soundless as he nodded at Clare and began filling a plate.

Valentinelli glowered at the sorceress, swallowing another mass. “When you take the blood oath off, strega, I kill him.” The Italian was back, singing under the surface of his words. Strengthening morning light fell pearly and pale across his scars, picking out the fresh grease stains on his waistcoat.

Miss Bannon examined him for a long moment, her hands motionless on the carved chair arms. “That would distress me,” she remarked, mildly enough. The charter symbols cascading over the glass panels in the ceiling shivered, wheeling apart and coming together in new patterns. A brief rattle of rain touched them, steaming off immediately, leaving streaks of dust.

“Maybe I let him live. For you.” The Neapolitan let out a resounding belch.

“Your magnanimousness fills me with gratitude.” Miss Bannon accepted a plate of fruit and toast from Mikal. There was a small, very fresh and livid bruise on the side of her neck, low near the delicate arch of her collarbone, and Clare’s eyebrows almost raised. It was extraordinarily uncomfortable to see such a thing.

Well. She is sorceress, and may do as she pleases, but still.

The Shield was the same, impenetrable. But his fingers brushed her shoulder as he turned away from serving her breakfast, and his yellow eyes were a trifle sleepy-lidded. Clare’s estimation of their relationship twisted sideways a few crucial degrees. His organ of Remembrance, having had time to search through dusty vaults and cellars, served up something quite interesting.

The scandal surrounding Miles Crawford, Duke of Embraith and Sorcerer Prime, had been only glancingly mentioned by a former employer. Clare had simply stored the details and moved on, uninterested but unable to let any information leave his grasp unmarked. The Duke had been caught embezzling from the Crown, or some such; there were whispers of some bad form, which could mean anything from wiping his nose incorrectly at his club to the pleasures of Sodom. There had been no breath of sorcery surrounding his demise, which Clare had found a trifle odd at the time, but it did not warrant his attention. Sorcery was not a matter he found of great interest, and he had been … busy.

That had been the last time he crossed wits with Dr Vance, and the memory was pleasing and bitter at once. The pleasure of such an opponent and the bitterness of being outfoxed that once warred with each other most improperly.

Miss Bannon tsked at Valentinelli. “Must you behave in this manner? Mr Clare, I trust you slept well.”

“As well as can be expected. There is a great deal to do today.”

A small nod, very graceful. “Certainly. Mikal?”

The Shield poured his sorceress a cup of tea. As soon as he had delivered it, he produced a sheaf of papers. He handed them silently to Clare, gave the Neapolitan a single scorching look, and turned away to fill his own plate. His breakfast was just as hearty as Valentinelli’s, but he managed it with infinitely more grace. For one thing, he sat to Miss Bannon’s left side and used the silver.

“My, what is this?” The notations were interesting; Clare scanned three pages and grew increasingly still, the breakfast room receding as he concentrated. All thoughts of Vance and old scandal fled. “Dear God.”

“Indeed. That should aid your investigations – and I do not need to remark on the trust implied by even the simple admission of my possession of such papers.”

“Working notes – these are Smythe’s, I take it?”

Another nod, as she sipped tea with exquisite care. “I could not find Throckmorton’s. There was very little left of his residence. There are also a few pages of Masters’s notes on the bottom – they may be of some use as well.”

“Undoubtedly. Thank you, Miss Bannon. This will aid my investigations immensely.”

“There is one more thing.” Her left-hand fingers flicked, the silver rings glinting dully, and a small crystalline pendant on a fine metal chain swung. It glowed even in the weak sunlight, a confection of silver wire and some colourless solid substance he could not immediately identify. “You shall wear this. If you are in dire need, I will be alerted, and I will offer what assistance I can at a distance, and furthermore make every effort to reach you. There is likely to be a great deal of annoyance involved in your investigations.”

“I say. Is that an actual Bocannon’s Nut?” Clare accepted the pendant, and Miss Bannon nodded before buttering her toast.

“With a few improvements, yes. They are time-consuming to create, and they can be broken, so do be careful.”

Valentinelli pulled the last chair away from the small round table, dragging it along the carpet. He dropped into it, crushing the cushion, and banged his plate down on Miss Bannon’s right. “Why you give him that, eh? I tell you I take care of him.”

“Nevertheless.” Miss Bannon’s childlike face was unwontedly grave instead of simply set. “You may have occasion to thank me for it before this affair is finished. Do you recall the second time I made use of your services?”

The Neapolitan actually turned cheese-pale, his pockmarked cheeks singularly unattractive as the blood drained away. “Ci. Incubo, e la giovana signorina. E il sangue. I remember.”

“This is likely to be much worse.” Miss Bannon applied herself to her toast and fruit, delicately conveying an apricot slice to her decided little mouth. “You may now leave the house at any time, Mr Clare, and return as you please. There is a brougham engaged and waiting at the front gate; you have the use of it all day.” A final nod, the curls massed over her ears bouncing. “I suggest you do not loiter.”

The driver was a broad-faced, pleasant man much exercised by the prospect of a full day’s beneficent hire, and his maroon brougham was clean and well ordered. The clockhorses were freshly oiled and springy; the whip cracked smartly, and Valentinelli was suddenly businesslike. The sneering uncouth mask fell away, and what rose to replace it was a calm, unblinking, almost feline stillness.

The Neapolitan proved somewhat less terrible as a travelling companion. Clare had exited Miss Bannon’s house with a shambling carter. Now he sat beside a dangerous man. He held his tongue, his attention divided between Valentinelli’s immobility and the fog-choked, yellow-glowing street outside the window.

Sigmund Baerbarth’s lodging in Clarney Greens was up two flights of stairs, the rooms spacious and well appointed but appallingly old-fashioned. The Bavarian kept them, antiquated as they were, because his workshop was situated directly behind the Queen Anne building holding his lodgings, in a long blue structure that had once been some manner of factory.

There was no chalked circle on the low wooden door inside the draughty building, so Clare tapped twice and entered. Valentinelli muttered a curse, shoving past him to peer at the tangled interior. A horrific noise was coming from the depths of the building, but that was normal enough. The Neapolitan finally nodded, curling a lip at Clare in lieu of simply saying it was safe to enter.

Shafts of sunlight pierced the dusty cavern, hulks of gutted machinery rising on either side. Metal gleamed, cogwheels as tall as Clare’s leg or watchmaker-tiny, bits of oiled leather and horsehair, struts and spars, carapaces