The Iron Wyrm Affair

The trail of destruction punched through walls, the entire house vibrating with the after-effects of a duel. Patches of plaster had turned to glass or smooth iron, chalky and inky feathers flew, irrationality transmuting the prosaic materials of the everyday into something else. Moisture dripped from the ceilings, droplets sliding upwards from the floor in some patches. The force of gravity itself was disturbed, and it would take time for the irrationality to bleed itself away through other sorceries worked in the vicinity.

She stepped through the outer wall, shaking her head slightly as the edges torn in the brick facing shivered. They had transmuted to a long red silken fringe, fluttering even in the still, fog-bound air, touching her cheeks and the backs of her hands with sinister, slippery little kisses.

Llewellyn and his remaining Shields had made for the stables. As Chancellor, Grayson had the right to have his carriage drawn by two gryphons on State occasions, as long as he defrayed the cost of their keep.

And of course, with his Shields, Lord Sellwyth could commandeer said beasts to effect his escape.

I must have frightened him very badly.

They had paused long enough to let the gryphons at the clockhorses. Shreds of horseflesh spattered the wrecked interior of the stable; the hot reek of offal and copper blood filled her nose. Shards of bone littered the floor. Grayson had possessed quite a collection, but every single clockhorse was a mess of bone, metal, and rent meat.

It does not matter, Emma. It is time.

She stood, her fists caught in her tattered skirts. The vision of Mikal’s broken body rose before her; she banished it with an effort that caused sweat to spring free. The plaster dust turned to a slick coating, and she fought to contain the force rising in her.

When she had again mastered herself, she gazed about the stable as if seeing it for the first time.

Death is here.

Very well, then. She was of the Endor, and it was high time she reminded Llewellyn Gwynnfud of the fact. Incidentally, if he reached his destination and engaged on what she suspected his next step was, her Queen would be in danger.

Emma Bannon, Sorceress Prime, did not like that idea at all. She inhaled smoothly, disregarding everything about her, turning inward to the locked and barred door of her deepest self.

And her Discipline … unfolded.

There was the lesser sorcery, charter and charm of force stored and renewed every Tideturn. Then there was Discipline, the unleashing of power that did not follow the sorcerer’s bidding. It simply was, working through the gateway suddenly opened for it until the strength of the conduit failed. When the gateway closed, the world was changed.

This, then, the danger of sorcery – a losing of oneself.

A fierce hurtful flower blooming in her, its barbs tipped with rotting dust and earth in her mouth. Leprous spots crawled over her skin, the taste of bones and bitter ash. “Aula naath gig,” she cried, a Language older even than Mending’s mellifluousness, and the chant took shape, tearing itself free of moorings inside her. Sorcery rose, pure and unconstrained.

The bones and meat and metal bedecking the stable’s interior … twitched.

Chapter Thirty-One Quarry and Quarry

It was a good thing Miss Bannon had left them a well-filled purse. The price of rented clockhorses to Upper Hardres was ridiculous. Ludovico pointed this out and drove a much harder bargain than Clare thought strictly wise, seeming to enjoy the haggling far more than was prudent. The Neapolitan was called a filthy gipsy, and took pleasure in feeding this impression by ill-timed spitting and insults. Sigmund was, of course, no help – the Bavarian could be cheated from pillar to post, and nearly was before the assassin intervened so auspiciously. It took a great deal of patience Clare was not overly supplied with in order to conclude the bargain in a reasonably diplomatic fashion.

Nevertheless, they were saddled by the time dawn broke over Dover’s cliffs, and a half-hour later had quit the town’s clutching limits.

The ride was a green and grey blur, Clare’s attention turned mostly inward, equations filling his mental cauldron near to bursting. The pattern trembled just out of reach. He did not know Throckmorton’s work, and there were other influences besides – he had read Roderick Smythe’s monograph on logic patterns, but the crop of equations bore as much resemblance to Smythe’s examples as a single fingernail gear did to Brocarde’s Infinitude Audoricon.

The clutching fog tried to follow them, but five miles out of Dover they burst into watery grey sunlight. The waking world was hushed, even the birds forgetting to greet the sunrise.

Their view was for the most part trammelled by high green hedges on either side, and Valentinelli slumped in his saddle as if he wished he were elsewhere. Sigmund clutched at the reins and looked miserable. Clare would have quite enjoyed himself, if not for the incessant mental work. He was no closer to finding a pattern to the equations when they breasted a rise and looked down on the dual villages of Hardres, Upper and Lower. The estate was on the far side of the Lower town, a haze of coal and other smoke riding under the billows of grey cloud, weather sweeping in visible from a long distance away.

Despite his slouching, Valentinelli was a good horseman, and his bay clockhorse picked up the pace as much as was safe. Hoofbeats pounded steady time, jog-trotting, sometimes reaching a bone-rattling canter when the Neapolitan judged it appropriate. Time pressed down on Clare, ticking – there was only a limited amount of it before they reached the estate, and once there time would weigh on them even more heavily.

They passed a weather-beaten sign, proclaiming Hardres Quarry Ltd 3mi, proudly pointing down an overgrown track that had nevertheless seen hard recent use, if the state of the broken and battered herbiage on its floor was any indication. Clare noted this, and his uneasiness mounted. The Sun refused to show His face, and the air was heavy with the fresh greensap scent of rain.

“Mentale.” The Neapolitan glanced over his shoulder. “What we likely to find here?”

It was somewhat of a relief to turn his attention from the equations. The array of mental blackboards had changed into a forest of hideously twisted chalk scribbles. “More mecha, certainly,” he answered, his faculties directed sluggishly at the new question. “Possibly a mentath to deal with the arranging of the fresh capacitors. What troubles me is that almost certainly we will find a few men in the trade of violence. We are not so very far from Londinium, and if Prussians have arrived in Dover, they have arrived elsewhere as well. Brighton and Hardwitch, of course.” The planning involved is tremendous. But they would not need many – just enough to hold the Palace and Whitehall, as well as the Armory at the foot of the Tower. Much will depend on exactly how they plan to incapacitate Britannia or Her vessel.

The thought of Britannia incapacitated, or Queen Victrix somehow under duress, gave him a queer feeling in the region of his stomach. It could not have been his last meal, for that had been Miss Bannon’s excellent dinner.

Well, if it was the last, at least it was a fine one. And in good company.

“Hmm.” Valentinelli grinned, white teeth flashing in his dark face. “I tell you what. I kill mercenaries, you kill the other mentale. Simple.”

“I cannot kill him until I know more of the plan.”

The Neapolitan jerked his head in Sigmund’s direction. “Is he any good at the torture, then?”

Sig piped up. “The bastards who broke my Spinne, yes, I torture them. Baerbarth shall invent new tortures!”

“I should think not, Sig old chap.” Clare suppressed a sigh. “Dear heavens. A mentath does not respond to such things as a mercenary would.”

Valentinelli’s snort was a masterpiece of disdain. “A man feel pain, he answer questions. Especially when Ludo is asking, mentale. Never mind. We see when we arrive.”

“If you would cease speaking like a bad imitation of a Punchinjude puppet, signor,