The Iron Wyrm Affair

and wheels in unholy profusion.

“Sig!” Clare called. “I say, Sigmund! Put the kettle on, you’ve visitors!”

A clanking rumble was the only reply. A mass of metal jerked, shuddering, and Clare watched as it heaved three times, oily steam sputtering from overworked valves. The shape suddenly made sense as he saw insectile legs with high, black-oiled joints. The body, slung below and between them, twitched and shivered. Atop the metal beast’s back, a short pudgy figure held on with grim determination, his arm rising and a monstrous black spanner rising with it. The man brought his arm down decidedly, a massive clanging resounded, and the pile of metal slumped, wheezing clouds of vile-smelling green steam.

The rotund man kept beating at the iron back, making a terrific noise, until it finally splayed on the sawdust- scattered floor, bleeding dark grease and panting scorched steam. A rich basso profundo voice rose, rumbling through quite a few scatological terms Clare might have blushed at had they been in Queen’s English.

“Sig!” he called again. “Good show, I say! You’ve almost got that working.”

“Eh?” Sigmund’s seamed bald head jerked up, the leather-and-brass goggles clamped to his face making his eyes into swimming poached eggs. “Archibald? Guten Tag, man! Wer ist das?”

“Name’s Valentinelli, he’s my insurance. Bit of trouble, old man. I need your advice.”

“Very good!” The Bavarian dropped the spanner with a clatter and hopped down, sawdust puffing from his boots. He wore a machinist’s apron, and when he freed himself from the goggles one could see watery brown eyes under bushy iron-grey brows. His moustache was magnificent, if a trifle singed, and his side whiskers were vast – to make up for his egg-bald head, since he was a vain man. “Come, I make you tea. And there is wurst! Cheese and your foul kippers, too. Come, come.” He pumped Clare’s hand with abandon, grabbed Valentinelli’s and did the same. “You are small and thin. Italian, ja? No matter, you eat too. Baerbarth is not proud.”

The Neapolitan gave a wolfish grin. “Neither is Valentinelli, signor. Ciao.”

“Ja, ja, come. This way, this way—”

He led them between stacks of machinery, into a section of smaller metal carcasses. The light came from gaslamps and high dusty windows, weakly struggling to penetrate the corners, glinting off sharp edges.

Four easy chairs crouched in front of a coal grate; a massive pigeonhole desk loaded with papers and smaller cogwheels and gears hunched to one side. This portion of the old factory was better lit and warmer, and a hanging rack constructed of scrap metal above the desk held loops of wurst links and a gigantic wheel of cheese in a net bag. The kettle near the grate was hot, and in short order a second breakfast was prepared. Valentinelli and Baerbarth set to with a will, while Clare contented himself with terrible, harsh tea cut with almost turned milk.

“Now.” Sigmund’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Tell me, Herr Clare. What is problem?”

There was nothing for it but to leap in, however indirectly. “I need Prussian capacitors.”

Sigmund shrugged, chewing meditatively at a wurst as thick as his burly wrist. He was only a genius; his faculties were not quite mentath quality and he had failed the notoriously difficult Wurzburg Examinations twice. For all that, he was generous, loyal, and honest to a fault. If not for the efforts of his landlady McAllister and his sometimes assistant Chompton – a thin, half-feral lad with a near-miraculous affinity for clockhorse gears – he would probably have been cheated out of every farthing long ago.

“Capacitors.” The great gleaming head nodded. “Prussians? Gone. Gentlemen bought mine month ago; none to be had, love or money. I could find you Davinports or some French ones, feh!” His face balled itself up to show his feelings on such a matter. To Sig, German mechanisterum was the apotheosis of the art, English was serviceable, and the French altogether too delicate and fancy to be considered proper mechanisterum at all. “But no, mein Herr, no Prussians. Not even my Becker haf them.”

Ah, so the trail is not as cold as I feared. “Now that is very odd.” Clare’s nose sank into his teacup. His habitual chair was a wide broken-in leather monstrosity, smelling slightly sharpish with rot like everything in the factory. Valentinelli’s head made a quick catlike movement, enquiring, as he perched on a wooden stool next to the grate – Chompton’s usual spot. “And where is young Chompers today?”

“He is picking river-shore, like good boy. Back before Tide, I tell him, but he grunt and wave his arms. Young men!” He rolled his weak, blinking eyes. “I find you Prussians, but it take time.”

“That’s quite all right. I have another question, my friend—”

“Of course. You would like wurst, eh? Or cheese? Bread is good, I just scrape mould off. More tea?”

“No thank you. Sig, old man, how would one trace a certain shipment of Prussian capacitors? Without drawing attention to oneself?”

The Bavarian grinned widely. One of his front teeth was discoloured; he had a positive horror of toothcharmers. “Aha! Now is revealed!”

No, but I would like you to think so. “Indeed. And?”

Sigmund sank back in his faded blue armchair, blowsy pink cabbage roses blooming horrifically over its surface like spreading fungus. It squeaked as he settled his squat frame more firmly. “Difficult. Very difficult.”

“But not impossible.” The tea was almost undrinkable, but at least it was strong. One could always do with a spot more to help a situation settle the proper way. “And if anyone can, Sig …”

“Archie. Is difficult, this thing you ask, ja?” Suddenly very grave, Sigmund took another mouthful of wurst and chewed. Like a cow, he thought best while ruminating.

A thin thread of unease touched Clare’s nape. He glanced at the stool by the grate.

Valentinelli had vanished.

Chapter Twenty-Two They Are Not Exercised Enough

The dark green curricle was fast and light, especially with Mikal at the reins and the matched clockwork bays high-stepping. A trifle flashy, not quite the thing for a lady, but one had only to look at the witchballs spitting in their gilded cages, swinging from the swan-neck leaf springs, and the dash-charm sparking with crimson as it deflected mud and flung stones from the passenger, to know it was not just a lady but one of sorcery’s odd children being driven by a nonchalant Shield through a press of Londinium traffic rather startlingly resembling the seventh circle of Hell.

The curricle took a hard left, cutting through a sea of humanity. Shouts and curses rose. Emma paid no attention. Her eyes shut, she leaned back in her seat, fine invisible threads flashing one by one through her receptive consciousness as she held herself still. One gloved hand held tight to the loop of leather on her left, her fingers almost numb. Mikal shifted his weight, the clockhorses so matched their drumming hoofbeats sounded like one creature, Londinium’s chill fogday breath teasing at her veil. Even the strongest air-clearing charm could not make the great dozing beast of the city smell better than foul on days like this, when one of Dr Bell’s jars had descended over everything from St Paul’s Road to the Oval, and beyond. The night’s fog crouched well past daybreak, peering in windows, fingering pedestrians, cloaking whole streets with blank billowing hangings of thick yellow vapour. Some, especially the ditch-charmers and hedgerow conjurors, swore Londinium altered itself behind the fog. Outside the Black Wark, the Well, Whitchapel’s Sink or Mile End – or some other odd pockets – few believed them.

Still, those sorcery touched did not laugh at the notion. At least, not overloud, and certainly never overlong.

The avenues widened as they travelled north and west toward Regent’s Park. Traffic thinned through Marylbone, taking the great sweep of Portland Place past terraced Georgian houses standing proud-shouldered, sparkling with wards and charms. Precious few were sorcerer’s houses – no, the unsorcerous fashionable paid for defences, the flashier the better.

A sorcerer’s defences were generally likely to be less visible and more deadly.

Mikal made a short, sharp sound, shifting again, and the horses leapt forward. Pelting up the Place was certainly one way to make a statement, and she did not wonder why he had chosen this particular route. She was to be as ostentatious as possible today, so her quarry would focus on her as the larger threat – and hopefully not notice Clare’s poking about overmuch.