The Iron Wyrm Affair

Then he shut his mouth, almost … yes, almost afraid he had said too much.

“Well said, sir.” Britannia sighed, Her chin sinking on to Her hand as if it weighed far more than it should. “Yet, as long as We possess subjects of such courage and loyalty as yourself, We shall not worry overmuch.”

“Miss Bannon deserves the credit, Your Majesty.” He sounded stiff even to himself, but it was merely the agony of exhaustion weighing him down. Staying upright and speaking consumed a great deal of his attention.

A ghost of amusement passed over Britannia’s closed, somnolent face. “No doubt she would lay it at your door.”

“She is too kind.”

“Not at all, mentath. We think it best you leave now. Our Consort approaches, and We wish a private word with him.”

Clare thought of protesting. Valentinelli gripped his free arm, though, and it occurred to him that discretion was perhaps wiser than anything he might say, however well founded the chain of logic that led to his suspicions. “Yes, mum. I mean, Your Majesty. By your leave.” Oh, what is the proper etiquette for taking leave of one’s sovereign in these circumstances?

“Mentath. Mr Clare.” Britannia’s eyes half opened, and the aged face rising underneath Victrix’s young countenance sent a most illogical shiver down Clare’s spine. Her eyes were indigo from lid to lid, small sparks like stars floating over depths he found he did not wish to examine too closely. What would it be like to clasp such a being in one’s arms?

No, he did not envy the Consort. Not at all. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Make certain Miss Bannon may find you and your companions. We shall wish to reward you, when We have sorted this unpleasantness through.” Her eyelids fell again, and Clare heard the drumming of approaching feet, shouts, and crunching of glass.

What did one say in this exotic situation? “Yes. Er, thank you, Your Majesty.”

Sig tugged him in one direction, Valentinelli in another. They finally decided on a course, Clare’s head hanging so low he did not see anything but his own filthy boots dragged over rubble and dust. When he passed into a soup of half-consciousness, it was welcome, his overstrained faculties deciding they required a retreat from recent events. He heartily agreed.

The last thing he heard was Sig’s muttering, and Valentinelli’s non-committal grunts in reply.

“Just one,” the Bavarian kept repeating. “You hear me, Italiensch? One mecha. We drag it to workshop. I feed you wurst. You help me.”

Chapter Forty-Two A Most Logical Sorceress

Emma slept for two and a half days, not even waking when Tideturn flushed her with sorcerous force. She finally surfaced to greet a fine clear Thursday dawn, spring sunlight piercing the haze of Londinium and the reek of the city cheerfully pungent, stray breaths of it creeping even into her dressing room.

The servants were slightly nervous, unused to seeing her in such a terrible state. Battered and tattered, of course, but even her corset stays had been broken, and she winced at the thought of the flesh she had shown. A hot bath, Isobel and Catherine’s attentions, and a good dose of Severine’s fussing brought her to feeling almost human again. Chocolat and croissants did not satisfy; her mirror informed her she was unbecomingly gaunt, even if the bruises had largely faded. She rang for Mr Finch as soon as was decently possible, and told him to send out for the broadsheets. Which arrived, ink still venomously wet, as she descended to a hearty breakfast.

Cook, it seemed, had missed her as well.

The story bruited about in the press was an Alteration experiment gone terribly wrong. It satisfied most and left the rest with a clear warning not to speak of their uncertainties. Emma found herself licking her fingers free of jam and contemplating another platter of bangers when the breakfast room door flew open and Mikal appeared.

He was just the same, from buttoned-up coat to flaming yellow eyes. Behind him, Eli ducked his dark head. They had evidently been at practice; the fume of recent exertion hung on them both. It was a relief to see Eli in proper boots; Mr Finch was a wonder.

Her heart leapt behind its cage of ribs and stays; the weight in her skirt pocket seemed twice as heavy. She ignored both sensations, though Mikal’s gaze almost caused a guilty flush to rise up her throat.

“Good morning, Shields,” she greeted them. “If you have not breakfasted, please do so. But I warn you, should you come between me and those bangers, I shall be quite vexed.” She touched her skirt pocket, took her hand away with an effort. “Mikal. What news?”

“A pouch sent from the Palace, daily visits from the mentath enquiring after your health. He is due again for tea today. Valentinelli is still trailing him, despite being paid.” Mikal filled himself a plate and glanced at Eli. “Eli finds your service most exciting.”

“Too exciting?” She tried not to appear amused, suspected she failed.

“No, mum.” The other Shield eyed the ravaged breakfast table. It was a relief to be in the presence of those who understood a sorcerer’s hunger after such events. “Rather a change, that’s all. Proud to be here.”

Well, that’s good. “Should you change your mind, Shield, do feel free to say so. I keep none in my service who would prefer to be elsewhere. Mikal, about Ludovico—”

“I gave him fifty guineas, Prima. Considering that he performed extraordinarily, killed Mr Throckmorton, and brought down a rather large mecha almost by himself. Would you care to hear of it now? Clare has given me the particulars.”

She settled herself more firmly in the chair. “Certainly. Eli, before you eat, please fetch the pouch from the Palace. No doubt it is in my library …?”

“Of course.” He was gone in a flash, closing the door quietly.

Mikal did not look at her. He settled in his customary seat, his plate before him just so.

Emma waited. Silence stretched between them. The lump in her pocket was an accusing weight.

He toyed with his fork, long, oddly delicate fingers running over its silver curves. Still did not look at her.

You will not make this easy. “Thank you.”

“No thanks are—”

“Accept my thanks, Shield.”

That brought his hot yellow gaze up to hers. “Only your thanks?”

Unbecoming heat finally rose in her cheeks. “At the breakfast table, yes.”

“And otherwise?”

Otherwise? I do as I please, Shield. But let us speak of the main thing. “Sellwyth could have killed you.”

“And he almost killed you. Do you think I do not know? It does not matter, Emma. I am your Shield. That is final, so whatever game you are pursuing, cease.”

A faint smile touched her lips. “Did you just give me an order?”

“If you are testing to see if I am serious, if I can be trusted—”

I do not forget the sound Crawford made when you choked the life out of him. But you did so for me.

Even a Shield may be, in the end, merely a man. Yet I am grateful for it. “I misjudged you once, Mikal. Never again.”

“Are you so certain?” A spark in his gaze, one she found she rather liked.

“Eat your breakfast.” She snapped a broadsheet open and examined it critically. “But leave those bangers alone. Else I will be vexed, Shield.”

“God save us all from that,” he muttered. But he was smiling, she saw as she peeked over the edge of the broadsheet. A curious lightness began in the region of Emma’s chest. She disciplined it, and returned to her