The Iron Wyrm Affair

“Can you trust a Shield from his service?”

“Childe is loyal.” He has a great deal to lose under the sodomy laws if he dares to be anything less. “And Eli is capable, from what I recall. Top of his year-class at the Collegia, rather as you were. Did you not recently seek to have me take on the responsibility of more Shields?”

He quieted, but the set of his chin was mulishly defiant. Emma sighed, hauling the book towards her usual table. The thing was as long as her own torso, and beastly heavy. Mikal let her take two steps before arriving to subtract the book from her arms. Surprised by its weight, he exhaled, shifted backwards and turned; she trailed behind, her skirts making a low, sweet sound.

The glow she had felt just before Tideturn, waking in his arms and feeling the rough texture of his skin against her back, was all but gone.

I am Prime, she reminded herself. It is his duty. And I shall not make the mistake of acting like a silly girl over this.

And yet. “Mikal—”

“Well enough. As long as he is capable.” The Principia thudded on to a small rosewood table, and she winced.

“That is a Great Text, Shield. Pray do not injure it.”

“Certainly. If you will take care not to injure yourself.”

“I am taking on an additional Shield, Mikal. One who will be glad of my service instead of Childe’s, perhaps, and one who may have learned restraint and obedience.” She tucked her veil aside, unnecessarily; it was still securely fastened. “Perhaps he can show you the value of such.”

“Perhaps.” He turned away. “Will he share your bed too, Prima?”

Is that it? For a moment, the silence was full of a resonant un-noise, as if the books had taken a collective breath after witnessing a sharp slap. Heat crawled up Emma’s throat, stained her cheeks. Had he just called her a whore, too? From Huston, she had expected it.

I am Prime. Your petty rules do not apply to me.

But it did not salve the sting. Why should she care what a Shield thought?

Because he is not merely a Shield, Emma. He is Mikal, and you are perhaps more grateful to him for saving your life and killing Crawford than you should be.

She composed herself, took a deep breath, and sank into the chair. Her gloved hand passed over the Principia’s cover, and the two locks holding the book closed clicked. Green with age, they flew apart as if they had never intended to stay clasped. Sorcerous force rose, Emma’s left hand flashing forward to curl around a slippery, not-quite-tangible armoured eel, as the book tested her will. It subsided quickly – after all, like every book, the Great Texts wanted to be read.

When she was certain the Principia knew who held the reins, she delicately lifted the heavy cover. Thick pages riffled.

“Prima.” Mikal sounded oddly breathless. “I am—”

About to apologise? That would imply I have taken insult, and from a Shield, no less. “I have no wish to hear you speak.” Her welling eyes fixed themselves on the Principia. Ink writhed, and the writing became clear. Serpentine illustrations flowed like water, bordering each page. She leaned closer, and breathed her query across the pages.

“Vortisssss.” The name trailed into a hiss, and the Principia’s pages riffled more quickly. A hot breeze lifted, touching her hair, fingering the entire library. The curtains rippled, paper on the gigantic desk near the fireplace stirred, the bronze-caged witchballs sizzled and turned bloody. Above the fireplace, a heavy-framed oil painting of Childe’s father glowered, and the dark coat the man was encased in was suddenly alive with golden traceries of charter charm.

The pages slowed, the Principia humming as it woke fully and sought within itself. Finally they stilled, and Emma leaned slightly back, blinking back hot saltwater. Her throat was full.

The flush of anger and pain turned to ice. A cold metallic finger traced her spine. She had to swallow twice before she could clear her throat, not from hurt, but from another emotion entirely.

Two pages. On the left side, a woodcut of a vast black wyrm, triple-winged and infinite horned, wrapped about a hill with a white tower. On the right, closely packed calligraphy, the ink still remembering the quill that had spread it. The words runnelled together before her will flexed, then cleared. At the top of the page, gold leaf trembled as it shaped a word.

Vortis was merely a use-name. Emma’s entire body quivered, and her earrings swung, tapping her cheeks uneasily. The cameo at her throat warmed, and she dimly heard the door open, Mikal saying something. Her well-trained memory dilated, the book speaking to her in its ancient language, her lips moving as the world hushed around her, motes of golden dust hanging suspended and the witchballs pausing in their spluttering hisses.

She was not one for prayer, except the fashionable sort uttered at conventional moments; besides, sorceresses were doubly damned by every church, Roman, Englican, or otherwise. But had she been the pious sort, Emma thought hazily, she might well start praying.

Vortis cruca esth, Mehitabel had hissed.

The Principia slammed shut, locks thudding closed. Emma blinked. Her cheeks were crusted with salt, and her stomach rumbled. How much time had she lost, gazing at the pages, intuition and intellect communing directly with the Text?

Mikal’s hand closed around her shoulder. “You are at Childe’s, in Tithe Street. It is almost Tideturn.” Did he sound ashamed?

Did she care?

At the door stood another Shield. Dark-haired, a trifle shorter than Mikal but a little broader in the shoulder, a Bowie knife worn openly at his hip and his eyes closed. His features were even, regular, and as she shuddered, fully waking, his own eyes opened. He shifted forward incrementally, his mouth firmed. He looked just like a quick- fingered Liverpool bravo, though Childe, with his usual irritating attention to detail, had him in a flashy waistcoat over a fine white high-collared shirt. At least his cloth was good, even if the boots looked dreadfully impractical.

For a moment she could not remember who or what she was. It flooded back, and she shuddered again. Mikal’s fingers tensed. She did not need the pain to steady herself, though the Duchess of Kent had suddenly become rather a small problem indeed.

Vortis cruca esth.

Or, if you did not speak the wyrm’s slow sonorous hiss …

Vortigern will rise.

Chapter Twenty-Five Throckmorton, I Presume

As chance would have it, Sig’s acquaintance Becker had lodgings near Thrushneedle Dock, a mean hole reeking of cabbage and gin but cleaner than one would suppose. There was much cheerful swearing in heavy German, Sigmund slapped the young hevvymancer’s back, and glasses of beer were produced.

Becker was lean, in a hevvymancer’s traditional red bracers and herringbone wool cap, heavy boots and a wide smile missing his front left canine. Perhaps he hated toothcharmers too, or could not afford one. Clare surmised that most of the young man’s money went to his ailing mother in a lumpen shawl, who shuffled between the single cot and the ancient stove, poking at a pot of boiling something and gazing at her only surviving son with weak, misty eyes. The woman spoke no English, but Becker had been born in Londinium, and a good thing it was too. Had he been born in Germany itself, his hevvymancing would be unreliable here, and both of them might starve.

“Lindorm,” Becker said, finally, standing because he had pressed Clare to take the only chair. Valentinelli stood by the door, examining his fingernails; the room was far too small for four males and the old woman’s skirts. “Ja. Only open a fortnight and odd, taking deliveries.” His accent was a mixture of his