The Iron Wyrm Affair

Emma gave him her hands, an unwonted smile curving her lips. A tear trickled from the corner of her right eye, and he tut-tutted. “How silly of me. Here, darling—” A Minor Word slid free of his mouth, his lips shaping the sibilants sensually, and the indigo drapes freed themselves from their ropes, falling gracefully across the windows. The witchballs darkened, and the young man at the fireplace shivered. “Is that better? You must have had a morning of it. Come, sit down.”

“I am here to plunder your library, Dorian. I see you’ve redecorated.”

“You hate it, I can tell. Not all of us have your restraint, my darling. Still carrying your baggage around, I see.” But his bright darted glance at Mikal held no malice. Just predatory interest, and Emma did not miss the reined distaste spreading from her Shield.

“Oh, don’t start.” Her shoulders relaxed, fractionally. Childe, at least, was a monster whose loyalty was not in question. Rather like a gryphon. “I saw Huston this morning. Do you know what charm he uses to colour his hair?”

“Whatever it is, I am certain it’s dreadful. Do come and sit down; the library can wait a few moments while you refresh yourself. Paul, be a dear and fetch some tea. Cook knows what we like.”

“I ent yer lady’s maid,” the panther at the fireplace sneered, but he peeled himself fully upright and slouched towards the door.

“Delicious, isn’t he?” Childe stage-whispered. “And so tractable. At least, at this stage.”

“You’ll get a knife in the ribs one of these days,” Emma murmured, as the tractable Paul banged the parlour door shut. “Where are your Shields?”

Childe magnanimously didn’t note that said knife would have to be applied while he was insensible not to earn its wielder a terrible sorcerous death, but the arch of his eyebrows and flare of his nostrils remarked for him. “Oh, around and about. You’re a fine one to talk. I could give you Lewis, he’s grown quite disapproving. Or even Eli. A lovely young thing like yourself shouldn’t be wandering alone.”

“Do I want the responsibility of another Shield? They require care and feeding, you know.” Eli. I remember him. Dark, and very quiet. He was with Alice Brightly, but she returned him to the Collegia. If he’s returned again, it might be unpleasant. “You’ve grown tired of Eli, then?”

“No, he’s just so serene all the time. It interferes with my jollities. So, darling, my library. What are you after? A little bit of flash? Something no respectable girl should be reading? A novel or two?”

She restrained herself from remarking that she wished she had time to read the novels gathering dust on her nightstand. “Actually, I am after a Great Text. Pricipia Draconis. You have, I seem to recall, a rather fine edition.”

“And you were at the Collegia earlier. Which means their copy has gone missing. How interesting.” Childe’s eyes all but sparkled. “My dear, what would you say if I told you that barely a fortnight ago, a dreadful little Master Sorcerer came with a letter from someone very important, asking me ever so nicely if I’d loan out my Principia?”

Emma blinked. I wonder. “Ah. It wouldn’t by any chance be a rather slovenly fellow by the name of Devon, would it?”

“You’ve been divining, my dear.” Childe’s interest mounted another notch. “Can you guess who the letter was from?”

Llewellyn? She pretended to think it over, tapping at her lips with a gloved finger. “Hmmm. Would it be, by chance, Gwynnfud? Lord Sellwyth himself?”

“Oh no, darling. No indeed.” Childe looked delighted to have feinted so successfully. He actually clapped his well-manicured hands, dropping into a chair as soon as Emma was settled on a settee swathed in gold-embroidered blue silk. “’Twas a wonder of penmanship from a certain Sir Conroy.”

Conroy? The Duchess’s hangman. The Duchess – the Queen’s mother. Oh, dear God. Emma did not sway, though the world rocked slightly underneath her. “The comptroller? What use would he have for it?”

“Her Royal Matronliness herself, the Duchess of Kent, wished to peruse it.” Childe positively wriggled with delight. “Oh, I’ve surprised you. How delicious. Tell me, is it high intrigue? Was I right to graciously refuse? I told Devon I couldn’t possibly loan it, as it is a Great Text, but the Duchess was more than welcome to visit, at her convenience, to peruse it. At her leisure, too.”

Emma was cold all over now. If she had to reappraise Childe’s loyalty, this would be a dire situation indeed. “Did she ever accept your invitation?”

“No. Devon looked like he’d swallowed a stoat. After, of course, it had desperately battled with his hair. I tell you, darling, he could be so fetching if he simply took some care with his appearance.”

“Intriguing.” The relief of not having to suspect him was only matched in its intensity by fresh alarm. How far is the Duchess involved? Or is it merely Conroy? Where he is, she isn’t far behind, and she would like nothing better than to embarrass the Queen into compliance again.

“No, he’s rather boring, but he’d be decorative.” Childe snorted.

“Not to my taste. What precisely did Devon say after you denied Her Majesty’s darling mother the use of your Principia?” A touch of sarcasm here, for she knew it would please him.

So it did. His face lit with an expression of dawning Schadenfreude. “It is intrigue, then! You are never boring, my dear. He gave me to understand the Duchess would be most piqued at my refusal; I replied that I didn’t care a fart in a windstorm – shocking I know, but he annoyed me; don’t laugh so – if she was piqued or if she sang an entire aria in the water closet. Then the little hedge-charmer had the sheer effrontery to ask if he could see the book! I informed him I am not a lending library and the Collegia library is open for Master Sorcerers just as for Primes, though not, of course, at the same time.” He almost wriggled with delight with the memory of the insult implied to Devon’s status. “Did I do right, darling?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Emma settled herself more firmly in her chair. “If I ask very nicely, Dorian dear, will you allow me to peruse the Principia?”

“My most enchanting Emma, you could set the damn thing on fire page by page in my bedroom while watching me disport with one of those boys you so highly disapprove of. You, at least, are never impolite or aesthetically lacking.” He pantomimed a yawn. “But first let’s have some tea. And really, darling, I was about to return Eli to the Collegia and pick out a more active Shield. Do you want him?”

Emma’s heart pounded in her ears. Another Shield would not be a bad idea at all, in light of this news. She could not risk returning to the Collegia and publicly taking more of them into service, and Eli would no doubt be glad not to return to the Shields’ dormitories in almost disgrace. “Yes.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Yes, I rather think I do.”

It was, she decided, probably a mercy she could not see Mikal’s face.

After a very satisfying cup of tea, Dorian left her in his library, one of the few rooms he had never redone since his father had left him a good address and sorcerous ability but precious little else. Whether the room was left alone because Childe saw no need to alter it, or because he spent very little time among the rare texts he collected so assiduously, was a mystery Emma felt no need to solve.

Two storeys high, the ceiling frescoed with Grecque gods cavorting among pale nymphs, the library was dark heavy wood, comfortable leather furniture that had belonged to Dorian’s father, a healthy fire in the grate, maroon drapes pulled against daylight. She breathed in the scent of paper, dust, old leather, smoky sorcery, and her shoulders eased still further. The other Prime was bursting with curiosity, and she had told him as much as she dared. The rumours he would start would be priceless in sowing confusion among her enemies.

At least Mikal waited until they were alone.

“Another Shield, my Prima?”

She turned away from the shelf, the Principia Draconis in her arms. It was a leather-bound monstrosity; this edition lacked Wilson’s gloss, but she didn’t think it would matter much. Wilson had simply cleaned up some of the archaisms. “I think it wise, if the Duchess of Kent and her hangman are involved. And I wondered where our conspirators received their money.”