The Iron Wyrm Affair

She knew no more.

Chapter Two Dreadful Aesthetics

This part of Whitehall was full of heavy graceless furniture, all the more shocking for the quality of its materials. Clare was no great arbiter of taste – fashion was largely useless frippery, unless it fuelled the deductions he could make about his fellow man – but he thought Miss Bannon would wince internally at the clutter here. One did not have to follow fashion to have a decent set of aesthetics.

So much of aesthetics was merely pain avoidance for those with any sensibilities.

Lord Cedric Grayson, the current Chancellor of the Exchequer, let out a heavy sigh, lowering his wide bulk into an overstuffed leather chair, perhaps custom-commissioned for his size. He had always been large and ruddy, and good dinners at his clubs had long ago begun to blur his outlines. Clare lifted his glass goblet, carefully. He did not like sherry even at the best of times.

Still, this was … intriguing.

“So far, you are the only mentath we’ve recovered.” Grayson’s great grizzled head dropped a trifle, as if he did not believe it himself. “Miss Bannon is extraordinary.”

“She is also severely wounded.” Clare sniffed slightly. And cheap sherry, as well, when Cedric could afford far better. It was obscene. But then, Grayson had always been a false economiser, even at Yton. Penny wise, pound foolish, as Mrs Ginn would sniff. “So. Someone is killing mentaths.”

“Yes. Mostly registered ones, so far.” The Chancellor’s wide horseface was pale, and his greying hair slightly mussed from the pressure of a wig. It was late for them to be in Chambers, but if someone was stalking and killing registered mentaths, the entire Cabinet would be having a royal fit.

In more ways than one. Her Majesty’s mentaths, rigorously trained and schooled at public expense, were extraordinarily useful in many areas of the Empire. Britannia rests on the backs of sorcery and genius, the saying went, and it was largely true. From calculating interest and odds to deducing and anticipating economic fluctuations, not to mention the ability to see the patterns behind military tactics, a mentath’s work was varied and quite useful.

A registered mentath could take his pick of clients and cases. One unstable enough to be unregistered was less lucky. “Since I am not one of that august company at this date, perhaps I was not meant to be assassinated.” Clare set the glass down and steepled his fingers. “I am not altogether certain I was the target of this attempt, either.”

“Dear God, man.” Grayson was wise enough not to ask what Clare based his statement on. This, in Clare’s opinion, raised him above average intelligence. Of course, Grayson had not achieved his present position by being completely thickheaded, even if he was at heart a penny-pinching little pettifogger. “You’re not suggesting Miss Bannon was the target?”

Clare’s fingers moved, tapping against each other restlessly, precisely once. “I am uncertain. The attack was sorcerous and physical.” For a moment his faculties strained at the corners of his memory of events.

He supposed he was lucky. Another mentath, confronted with the illogic of sorcery, might retreat into a comforting abstract structure, a dream of rationality meant to keep irrationality out. Fortunately, Archibald Clare was willing to admit to illogic – if only so far as the oddities of a complex structure he did not understand yet.

A mentath could not, strictly speaking, go mad. But he could retreat, and that retreat would make him unstable, rob him of experiential data and send him careening down a path of irrelevance and increasing isolation. The end of that road was a comfortable room in a well-appointed madhouse, if one was registered – and the poorhouse if one was not.

“If war is declared on sorcerers too …” Grayson shook his heavy, sweating head. Clear drops stood out on his forehead, and he gazed at Clare’s sherry glass. His bloodshot blue eyes blinked once, sadly. “Her Majesty is most vexed.”

Another pair of extraordinarily interesting statements. “Perhaps you should start at the beginning. We have some time while Miss Bannon is treated.”

“It is exceedingly difficult to keep Miss Bannon down for any length of time.” Grayson rubbed at his face with one meaty paw. “At any moment she will come stalking through that door in high dudgeon. Suffice to say there have been four of Her Majesty’s registered geniuses recently lost to foul play.”

“Four? How interesting.” Clare settled more deeply into his chair, steepling his fingers before his long nose.

Grayson took a bracing gulp of sherry. “Interesting? Disturbing is the proper word. Tomlinson was the first to come to Miss Bannon’s attention, found dead without a scratch in his parlour. Apoplexy was suspected; the attending forensic sorcerer had all but declared it. Miss Bannon had been summoned, as Crown representative, since Tomlinson had some rather ticklish matters to do research for, cryptography or the like. Well, Miss Bannon arrived, took one look at the mess, and accused the original sorcerer of incompetence, saying he had smeared traces and she could not rule out a bit of nastiness instead of disease. There was a scene.”

“Indeed,” Clare murmured. He found that exceedingly easy to believe. Miss Bannon did not seem the manner of woman to forgive incompetence of any stripe.

“Then there was Masters the Elder, and Peter Smythe on Rockway – Smythe had just arrived from Indus, a rather ticklish situation resolved there, I’m told. The most current is Throckmorton. Masters was shot on Picksadowne, Smythe stabbed in an alley off Nightmarket, and Throckmorton, poor chap, burned to death at his Grace Street address.”

“And …?” Clare controlled his impatience. Why did they give him information so slowly?

“Miss Bannon found the fire at Throckmorton’s sorcerous in origin. She is convinced the cases are connected. After Masters’s misfortune, at Miss Bannon’s insistence sorcerers were hastily sent to stand guard over every registered mentath. Smythe’s sorcerer has disappeared. Throckmorton’s … well, you’ll see.”

This was proving more and more diverting. Clare’s eyebrow rose. “I will?”

“He’s in Bedlam. No doubt you will wish to examine him.”

“No doubt.” The obvious question, however, was one he was interested in Grayson answering. “Why was I brought here? There must be other unregistereds eager for the chance to work.”

“Well, you have been quite useful in Her Majesty’s service. There’s no doubt of that.” Grayson paused, delicately. “There is the little matter of your registration. Not that I blamed you for it, quite a rum deal, that. Bring this matter to a satisfactory close, and … who can say?”

Ah. There was the sweet in the poison. Clare considered this. “I gather Miss Bannon is just as insubordinate and intransigent as myself. And just as expendable in this current situation.” He did not think Miss Bannon would be expendable, precisely.

But he did wish to see Cedric’s reaction.

Grayson actually had the grace to flush. And cough. He kept glancing at Clare’s sherry as if he longed to take a draught himself.

I thought he was more enamoured of port. Perhaps his tastes have changed. Clare shelved the idea, warmed to his theme. “Furthermore, the registered mentaths have been whisked to safety or are presumably at great risk, so time is of the essence and the need desperate – otherwise I would still be rotting at home, given the nature of my … mistakes. I further gather there have been corresponding deaths among those, like myself, so unfortunate as to be unregistered for one reason or another.”

Grayson’s flush deepened. Clare admitted he was enjoying himself. No, that was not quite correct. He was enjoying himself immensely. “How many?” he enquired.

“Well. That is, ahem.” Grayson cleared his throat. “Let me be frank, Archibald.”