The Iron Wyrm Affair

“Simple.” The Neapolitan resheathed the knife. “If they after fat one there, I let them have him.”

Clare swallowed. The crystalline pendant had warmed again, no longer a chip of cold metal ice under his shirt. His throat was amazingly dry. He could use even some of Sig’s atrocious tea. “I see. Well, I thought as much. Sig, fetch your bag. We’re going capacitor-hunting. Where do we start?”

Sigmund took his hat from his round head, dusted it fastidiously, and jammed it back on while setting off for the still smoking grate. “Docks. Always start docks first. Tell me everything.”

The docks of Londinium seethed under a dome of sulphur-yellow fog. Here, the nerve endings of Empire sizzled with goods crated and bundled in every conceivable way, crawling with hevvymancers lifting loads or charming them into balance, sorcery spitting and crackling between the mountains of goods of every stripe, shipwitches wandering among them and laying carpets of charter charms. Tabac, indigo, flour, wine, carpets, chests, tea, coffee, cloth of every colour and description, spread and piled high over miles of timber. More hevvymancers charmed loads off the waiting ships, ship- and saltwitches humming in the rigging and calming restive breezes. The non-sorcerous carters, lifters, haulers, bullies, and half-clad ragged men looking to earn a few coins by shifting and hauling milled, choking the streets; warehouses stood tall and proud with Altered guards – some flashboys, others more serious and soberly modified – watching the crowded streets. No doubt many of them had a thriving trade in embezzlement to pay for their Alterations and the servicing of their metal, too.

They left the brougham and its driver at a nearby livery stable, the driver even more ecstatic that the day’s work was proving so easy. Pressing forward on foot, Clare and Sigmund were soon lost in the crowd. Valentinelli drifted in their wake, and such was the confusion and clangour of Threadtwist Dockside that none remarked the blood on his clothes. To be sure, in the yellow glare it could be any dark fluid fouling him. Still, Clare found it difficult to look at the man.

Sigmund, still bemoaning the loss of his breakfast, kept up a steady stream of banter the entire way. Clare confined himself to non-committal responses, sunk in profound contemplation. He’d told the Bavarian the absolute minimum required, and they were now en route to a place where the tracing of a specific shipment of Prussian capacitors could begin. Miss Bannon’s papers had included an invoice from a certain Lindorm Import Co., Threadtwist Dock, Londinium – an invoice that, when he had examined it after Miss Bannon’s morning departure, had borne surprising fruit: a scrawl under “Rec’d of” he had more than a passing familiarity with.

After all, he had seen it many a time at Yton on Cedric Grayson’s papers. The Chancellor of the Exchequer was involved indeed, and Clare could not wait to share the news with Miss Bannon. A dragon’s word – he shuddered at the thought of the beast, hurried on – might not be acceptable proof to take Cedric to account, but this certainly was. And she had possessed it for who knows how long, without knowing its import.

That was satisfying in and of itself.

Chapter Twenty-Four Never Aesthetically Lacking

Childe lived on Tithe Street; his wife was in Dublin and happy to remain there with his son. Mrs Childe had probably once thought to domesticate the man, but Primes were not easily tamed, especially one of Dorian’s stripe. Still, she was a sorcerer’s wife now, and did not want for support. At least Childe took care of his own, even if he also threw guineas over the young panthers of Topley like water. Whether he kept Mrs Childe well supplied because she had borne him a son who showed sorcerous promise, or because he had once cared for her, or because it was the decent thing to do, none could say. Emma was most inclined to believe the first, public opinion the second, and none but the extraordinarily naïve held to the last. A small contingent of fashionable opinion aired the view that since Childe was so busy buggering everything that moved, cash sent to Dublin was merely a means of keeping the woman away from his pleasures so she could tend to his son in magnificent seclusion.

Regardless, the Tithe Street house was magnificent; one of Naish’s best, terraced and graceful, it rose for four storeys above the wide avenue, a low stone wall curving around it and containing a froth of gardens generally considered to be some of the finest in Londinium. Mikal paused before the gate as the invisible protections resonated – every knot and twist whispering Childe’s name to the extramundane senses, seashell murmurs of a Prime’s disturbance in the fabric of the real.

Childe was at home. The defences swept aside, a not-quite-shimmering curtain, grandly theatrical like all his gestures. Mikal guided the high-stepping clockhorses on to the drive.

Emma’s cheeks were damp. Achieving the Collegia grounds was one thing, descending was quite another. She blinked furiously, more tears sliding free. The blasted sun, just like everything else, was conspiring to fray her patience today.

Sometimes she wished her Discipline did not give her such an aversion to the daylight. Never for very long, and never very deeply, for on that path lay a danger she was unwilling to court. A Prime should never doubt his Discipline, the saying ran. Still, it would have been bloody lovely to be able to produce a Major Work that did not leave her half blind.

The stairs, a sweep of slick gold-veined marble with knife-sharp edges, marched to a huge crimson door. Only Childe would have such a vulgar thing. The urns lumbering up the steps held scarlet poppies, their blowsy heads nodding in unison, strangely bleached by the yellow cast of sunlight filtering through the fog. The air was deadly still, though a few stirrings promised rain later, perhaps at Tideturn. It might wash the filthy smell from the city, though Emma doubted it.

Inside, it was blessedly dimmer, the vast arching foyer was lit only by a few shafts of golden sunlight and several hissing witchballs in cages shaped like half-open amaryllis. Childe’s long-suffering butler Mr Herndrop bowed, slightly and correctly, as he took the card from Mikal. His indenture collar was lacklustre, but his florid cheeks and nose more than made up for it. “He is in the front parlour, mum. Had quite a night of it.”

It is a wonder he is receiving, then. But Childe very rarely turned her away. “Thank you, Herndrop. How is your arthritis?”

His chest puffed a little – not that it needed to; Herndrop possessed under his butler’s black a barrel organ of a ribcage. “Tolerable, mum, thank you.”

Emma nodded; he did not precede her to the parlour. That could be an indicator either of Childe’s esteem for her, or of his incredibly foul mood. Or both. Besides, stationed at the door leaned a Shield of surpassing lankiness, his chestnut curls trimmed close but his moustache particularly fine.

“Lewis.” Mikal, quiet and polite.

Lewis merely nodded. A flush had begun on his throat; he swallowed visibly. Few Shields would acknowledge Mikal openly now.

Not unless Emma forced them, and today she did not feel the need.

Emma, her skirts gathered and her stride lengthening, made straight for the door – white-painted, gold leaf trimming its rectangular carvings, the knob a carved crystal skull. That was a new addition – previously it had been red curtains and a pasha’s fancy beyond. “Good heavens,” she remarked, “I almost shudder to think of what’s behind the door this time.”

“Mum.” Lewis sounded half strangled, but he reached for the knob anyway. Mikal did not let loose an amused half-chuckle, but it was very close.

The door swept open, bright light stung her eyes afresh, but Emma reached up to pull aside her veil. Childe had redecorated in bordello blue, with a French twist, Louis L’Etat Quatorze with curlicues, slim-legged tables, ormolu, and overstuffed furniture. Leaning on the mantel was a young man; Emma took him in at a glance and sighed internally. The loud coat, soft white hands, and scented hair all screamed a St Georgeth panther, brought home with Childe’s usual utter lack of propriety or even good sense. This particular one had a fresh face still clinging to youth, but the sullen expression – no doubt charming when he was a lad – marred whatever remained of his attractiveness. He gave Emma an insouciant look, curling his lip and his little finger, and she suppressed a flash of irritation.

“Well!” Dorian Childe, sleek-haired, heavy-lipped, and one of the more powerful Primes of the Empire, was in a violently patterned green and black kimono, but his toilette was otherwise immaculate. “If it isn’t my dearest Emma. Are you here for tea, or is this another of your flying visits?”