The Iron Wyrm Affair

than sorcerers. They are far happier than you shall ever be – for they lack ambition. They find their joy in their Discipline, not their danger.

“Principia Draconis,” the livrewitch repeated, slowly. A shuffling movement went through the flocks of books, shelves moving as the Library sought inside itself. “De Baronis, originally, 1533. Amberforth updated and glossed in 1746; James Wilson in 1801. Eight hundred pages, folio, cover is—”

“Bannon.” The sneering behind Emma could only come from one man. “Still bringing trash into hallowed halls, I see.”

“Lord Huston.” She inclined her head, but did not turn. “Still unacquainted with basic etiquette, I see.”

“Ladies are due etiquette, Bannon.” The Headmaster’s cane – an affectation, of course, with its silver mallard’s head – hit the carpeting. He must have forgotten he wasn’t in one of the stone- floored halls, where the tapping of his progress would send a wave of dread through the sensitised fabric of reality.

Mikal moved, a susurrus of cloth as he faced the Headmaster. Emma kept her gaze on the livrewitch, who was mumbling. At any moment the book would appear, and she could give the Headmaster short shrift before taking herself to a study table to do some quiet digging.

“And the trash seems to have ideas.” Mock-surprised. “When are you going to take a proper Shield, Bannon? If any will serve with that murdering apostate behind you.”

“Be careful, little man.” Bannon allowed her right toe to lift and tap the carpet precisely once. Her skirts would cover it, but she was still annoyed at the movement. He was Prime, yes – but just barely. Had he not been extraordinarily lucky, he would be merely an Adept, or even a Master Sorcerer, since his Examination scores had been dreadful. “I am not a student.”

“A sorcerer who ceases to learn ceases to thrive,” he intoned piously. “Whatever are you doing here, then, if you are no longer learning?”

“The Library is open to every Adept and above, at every hour.” It was her turn to sound pious. “Or perhaps you’d forgotten that Law?”

A direct hit. “I forget no Laws,” he hissed. “You are the one who has a Shield who no doubt murdered his charge. You should hand him over to justice.”

Her temper stretched. “If you challenge me for one of my possessions, Huston, I might almost think you’ve grown tired of breathing.”

The Library’s rustling silence took on a sonorous, uneasy depth. I do not have time for a duel today, Alfred, Lord Huston. Take advantage of that. For a moment she considered how easy it would be to see him as a conspirator and administer appropriate justice.

The thought almost managed to soothe her.

“The Principia Draconis is not here.” The livrewitch cocked her tangled head, the words a thin reedy murmur as she clasped her hands. Her gaze was already sliding away, uninterested in the drama before her. “It has been borrowed.”

“That is quite impossible.” Emma’s temper rose afresh; she bottled it. Today was already unpleasant, and it was early for her to be so irritated. “It is one of the Great Texts; it is not to leave the Library.”

Huston’s sneer was absolutely audible. “Oh, the Principia? I believe Lord Sellwyth wished to peruse it at leisure; I gave my approval. Since he is such a special friend to the Collegia.”

For a moment, Emma Bannon literally could not believe her ears. Books fluttered nervously, several taking wing from the carved banisters. Shadows darted, and she turned on her heel, the cameo at her throat warming dangerously. Her skirts belled, and Mikal took a half-step to the side, his broad back tense under green velvet. No blades were visible yet – of course, if he drew, she would be hard pressed to calm the layers of ancient stifling protection meant to safeguard students from misfired lessons.

Even the simplest spell could kill, here. Bloodlust on Collegia grounds carried a heavy price.

Huston, his scarecrow form in an antiquated black suit, collar tied high and snowy cravat under his chin as if Georgus IV was still Britannia’s vessel, actually paled and stepped back. Thin strings of bootblack hair crossed his domed cranium, and if Emma had been a devotee of phrenologomancy she might well have decided to examine his skull for an organ of Cowardice and one of Idiocy to boot.

With a hammer, or another suitably blunt bludgeoning tool.

His breeches were spotless, and a perfumed handkerchief frothed in his free hand. The man even wore dandy boots, the toe pointed and heel arched. The clicking of his cane was usually followed by the soft tapping of his heels, a sound that featured in student nightmares. Long bony strangler’s fingers, his right hand bearing the heavy carnelian Collegia Seal, spasmed on the silver duck’s head.

The light in here was too damnably bright, but it was Emma’s stinging eyes that reminded her of her priorities. The veil, thankfully, might hide her expression. “You …” She did not cough, but she did pause. “You allowed Llewellyn Gwynnfud to take a Great Text from the Collegia Library? The Principia Draconis? ” She congratulated herself on only sounding mildly surprised. “When was this? I ask, Lord Huston, only to be quite accurate when I make my report.”

“Report?” Now Huston was positively chalky. He would have no idea to whom she would make such a report, but the creeping cowardice of petty officialdom ran to his very marrow. The Seal made a scratching noise, the carnelian shifting from a carving of Pegasus to the double serpents of Mordred’s time. It was, she reflected, far too large for his fingers.

“Yes.” She also wondered – and not for the first time – precisely which charm he used to colour his hair. The dual thoughts bled her anger away. A dangerous calm closed over her. “When was it, sir?”

“Well, let’s see … hmmm … that is …” He tapped the head of his cane with one manicured index finger. “You know, I cannot quite—”

“Principia Draconis. Checked out. A fortnight ago exactly,” the livrewitch said dreamily. “The Psychometry books were restless that day. So was the Bestiary section. It took some work to calm them. They are not exercised enough.”

Huston’s expression was priceless. Emma smoothed her gloves. “Thank you. That will be all. Come, Mikal.” Dismissive, she set off for the entrance. Well. A mostly wasted trip. But now I know you are to be mistrusted to an even greater degree than I did before.

And that is very valuable knowledge.

Her Shield fell into step behind her. There was a sound from above – a student perhaps, witnessing the exchange. This would be round meat indeed for them. Only the almost randomness of Huston’s malignancy made a revolt in the student ranks unlikely. Besides, he largely allowed the professors to do as they pleased, and they liked the power so much they kept him firmly seated at the helm of the Collegia.

Or what he believed was the helm.

“Harlot.” Whispered just loud enough to be an insult. “Whore.”

It was the oldest insult hurled at a sorceress – or indeed, at any woman who did not do what a small man wished. Did he expect it to sting?

If only you knew, you bastard bureaucrat. Other words rose; she considered each one and decided a lady would not speak them, so she certainly would not.

Her back was alive with Mikal’s nearness. She swept out of the Library with rushing blood filling her ears. Outside, the sorcerously cleansed air still reeked of Londinium’s disease. Nevertheless, she stopped and took a deep breath.

“Prima?” Mikal, his tone promising vengeance, should she want it. She would be well within her rights to call Huston to the duelling ground – but she would have only Mikal and a livrewitch for witnesses. It would not do.

She would merely remember this, as she remembered so much else. A Prime’s life was long, and she would see Huston falter one day. “Leave it.” She did not have to try very hard to sound weary. “He is of little account. Besides, there is another copy of the Principia.”

“Indeed? Where?”

“At Childe’s. Fetch the curricle.”