The Iron Wyrm Affair

“I broke his neck. But his head is still intact.” Mikal’s tone could best be described as sullen.

Well, there is that. “Ah. Yes. I see.” She decided. “Very well, bring him. Ludovico, do take Mr Clare and his companion to my home. Formal introductions can wait until we are not here. We shall join you soon.” She eyed the mentath, who swayed. His colour was not good at all, and his thinning hair stood straight up, grimed with soot. “And mind the mentath, he looks a bit—”

Clare’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed. And Emma felt the chill along her fingers and toes that meant the Shadow had taken an interest in proceedings. She did not know how long they had before it arrived and must be dealt with, and she had expended far more force than she wished attacking the metal … thing.

“Oh, bloody hell,” she breathed, just as the light failed completely.

Chapter Twenty-Seven Unpleasant, But Instructive

Clare clasped the crackling brown paper, soaked with vinegar, to his aching head. “Unpleasant,” he murmured. “Highly unpleasant. But instructive.”

“I am glad to hear your afternoon went so well,” Miss Bannon replied. “Mine was equally instructive, and it was very disagreeable dealing with the Shadow near the Tower. But, my dear Mr Clare, please answer me. What in the name of the seven Hells were those … things? Sorcery does not touch them; this upsets me a great deal.”

He shifted on the fainting-couch. The sitting room was very comfortable, despite the tension sparking in every corner. “Obviously. I am trying to find a word that would explain them to a layman, but the best I can do is homunculus or golem. Neither is precise, mind you, but—”

“Mr Clare.” Quietly, but with great force. “Kindly do not become distracted, sir. I have a dead body in my study that grows no fresher, and I cannot question the man’s shade effectively unless and until I have some answers from you.” Her tone grew sharper. “And Ludo, darling? Stop whistling, or I shall sew your lips together.”

Clare peeled open one eye to see Miss Bannon perched on a low stool at his side, high colour in her cheeks and her hair most fetchingly disarranged. Behind her, Sigmund’s wide faithful face loomed. The Bavarian was chewing on something that rather startlingly resembled a wurst and a slice of yellow cheese.

“Ah.” Clare cleared his throat. “Miss Bannon, may I present to you Mr Sigmund Baerbarth, genius, and my personal friend? Sig, this is Miss Bannon, a most interesting sorceress.”

“How do you do,” Miss Bannon said over her shoulder, and Sig nodded, swallowing hastily.

“Seer geehrte, Fraulein Bannon.”

The sorceress returned her dark gaze to Clare, who had gathered himself sufficiently to face such an examination calmly. The vinegar did not help much. “Pray fetch me some ice and salt, if you would. My head aches abominably.”

Bannon glanced over her shoulder again, her jet earrings swinging, and there was a murmur from the door. There seemed a large number of people crowding the sitting room. The rain had started, and its patter against the window panes was an additional irritation. When she again returned her attention to him, her mien had softened.

“You saved my life, Mr Clare.” Her childlike face was sombre now. And yes – those were her gloved fingers, delicately holding his free hand. “That thing had cannons on its … arms, I suppose one would call them. Who was controlling the other one?”

“Hm. Well, yes.” An uncomfortable heat mounted in his cheeks. Her little hand was trembling; he could feel it through the kidskin. “Bit of quick thinking, that. It was a mentath. Throckmorton.”

“Remarkably spry for a dead man. He escaped. Helped by Mr Devon’s Shields, I am told, which is shocking enough. I am quite put out that Mr Devon was not captured alive.”

“Ah. Well. Miss Bannon, allow me to collect myself for a moment. Then I shall answer your questions. Is there tea?”

“Of course. Shall I fetch you some?”

Well, she is remarkably calm, under the circumstances. “With lemon, please.”

The ice arrived in a well-scalded and proof-charmed cloth, and between that and a cuppa he was soon sitting upright, blinking in the rainy failing light. He did not care to know how he had been transported to Miss Bannon’s house, other than to be grateful at the occurrence. The splitting pain of strained faculties inside his skull receded bit by bit.

Mikal hovered at Miss Bannon’s shoulder as she sipped her own tea, thoughtfully, her little finger raised just so. The Shield’s face was a thundercloud, and Clare suspected the reason was the other Shield, a dark-haired man who leaned almost somnolent at the mantel. The mystery of where Miss Bannon had acquired him could wait, Clare decided as his temples throbbed.

Ludovico Valentinelli, on the far side of the fireplace, was engaged upon cleaning his fingernails with another of his many knives, and glancing curiously at the new Shield. Sig was at the tea table, munching happily. Every so often the Neapolitan would drift to the table and help himself. It was a comfort to see their appetites undiminished, even if they were still soot-stained and faintly wild-eyed.

“Now,” Clare said, finally, when he was certain his voice would remain steady. “It is much worse than either of us feared, Miss Bannon. Those things, the mechanisterum homunculi, for lack of a better term; Sig would merely call them mecha, dear boy that he is – do not run on Alterative sorcery. They can be run directly through the smaller logic engines inside their chest cavities. You will no doubt have noticed the glow at my chest while—”

“Yes. Proceed.” One of her hatpins, he saw, had broken. He wondered if she had found the pieces; decided not to think on it too deeply lest overstress fuse his brain into uselessness.

“They must be run by a mentath. My current state is the cost of handling such an engine without preparation. The equations are … very difficult. But that is not what concerns us.” He winced, took another swallow of tea. “Some toast, perhaps?”

“Of course. Mikal, please fetch him a plate.” Visibly calmer, Miss Bannon settled on the cushioned stool. Her skirts were arranged very prettily, Clare noticed.

It was the first time one of these episodes had not ended with her in tatters, he reflected. Doubtless she was glad.

He brought his attention back to the matter at hand. “The larger – the master logic engine, you see, would not be in that warehouse. It is being kept safe elsewhere. The master engine will be the transmitter. Those – the mechanicals you saw – are all receivers, with limited capability of being run directly. With a large enough transmitting engine, especially handling the sub-equations in a useful fashion, which is possible with enough power supplied through the core, the mentath wired to the transmitting engine will have control of an army.”

Silence.

Miss Bannon had gone quite white. She stared not at him but through him, her gaze disconcertingly direct and remote at the same time.

“An army.” Very thoughtful, and very soft. She took another sip of tea. “One that does not need food, or rest. One that sorcery does not touch.”

“The field generated by the logic engines –”

“– rather makes it difficult for sorcery to penetrate. Yes, Mr Clare. And Mr Throckmorton alive.” She continued, pedantically, after a long pause. “I wonder whose corpse was at Grace Street. And what Throckmorton was doing there with Devon.”

“Standing guard, perhaps? Who would look for a mentath in the Shadow?” He suppressed a shudder at the