The Iron Wyrm Affair

work.

The solarium was drenched in golden late-afternoon light, the charter symbols wedded to the glass cooling the sun’s glare enough to be pleasant. The plants sang in their climate globes, and Emma poured the tea. The wicker tables and chairs glowed, each edge clean and bright.

When she had handed the teacup over, she produced the parchment, rolled tightly and bound with red wax. “Your licence is reinstated. You are commissioned as one of the Queen’s Own; also, you are to be knighted. Congratulations.”

The mentath’s long, mournful face pinkened slightly as he accepted the scroll, but he still looked grave. “There are still unanswered questions, Miss Bannon.”

And you do not like unanswered questions. “Chief among them is the identity of Grayson’s paymaster. Though he was Chancellor of the Exchequer, and had access to a variety of funds.” Emma nodded, her curls brushing her cheeks. It was bloody luxurious to sit and have a quiet cuppa, and to wear an afternoon dress that had not been torn by some unpleasantness. “Suffice to say, there are personages we may not move directly against, no matter how high we may temporarily be in royal esteem. However, we have stung their fingers mightily, and now I may watch them. Which will be all the more easy, given recent events.”

“Ah yes, your creation as Countess Sellwyth. Congratulations to you.”

Britannia has her own strange sense of justice, and She wishes Dinas Emrys watched. “That was not what I was referring to.” She indicated the tiers of dainties. And I do not want your nimble brain worrying at the question of who crafted the simulacrum in Bedlam. Even if it is a question that probably will not interest you, it is too dangerous for you to pursue. “Please. You look rather not your usual self, Mr Clare.”

He set to with a will. Apparently his digestion was still excellent. “There is something else that troubles me. Sellwyth’s family held that place for generations. What made him think now was the proper time to unleash its, erm, occupant?”

They offered him something his ambition could not refuse. Emma shrugged. And now I am left wondering what my ambition cannot refuse. We are alike, Llew and I, more than even he suspected. “Who can tell? He was Throckmorton’s paymaster, that much is certain; the mentath kept that secret very well. Pity Valentinelli killed him, though I understand it was necessary. Was he truly bollixing about with Alterative sorcery, I wonder?”

Clare looked a trifle uncomfortable for a few moments. “Mad. He was utterly mad. Throckmorton, I mean. Oh. Mr Baerbarth sends his regards, by the way. He was quite put out that he could not examine one of the mecha at leisure.”

“Perhaps something can be arranged.” The core and the large logic engine, of course, had been moved in secret. It was only a matter of time before someone else created something similar, and Emma half suspected Clare’s first project as one of the Queen’s commissioned geniuses would have something to do with preparing the Empire for such an eventuality.

“He would be most pleased. Also, Signor Valentinelli—”

“Will cease following you very soon; if he visits tomorrow, I may release the binding on him.”

“Well, that’s just the thing.” Clare pinkened again. “He extends his regrets, but says he wishes no such thing. He rather likes the excitement, you see, though I’ve told him a mentath’s life is usually deadly boring. He says he has grown too old for his usual line of work, and I apparently need some looking after. He sounds like an old maiden aunt, frankly, and the sooner you send him on his merry way the better.”

“Ah.” Her mouth wanted to twitch. Oh, Ludo. You have ideas, I see. “Well. He did seem to have taken a liking to you.” She took a mannerly sip of tea, finding it had cooled most agreeably. The savouries looked very appetising indeed, and she was hungry again. It would take time to regain the lost weight.

“You mean, each time he threatens to duel me after your spell is taken off is a mark of affection? He is quite fond of that threat.”

“He must enjoy your company.” And that bears watching too. “How very droll.”

The conversation turned to other things, and Clare did his best to observe the pleasantries. It irked him, though, and she could see the irritation rising in him. After another cup and a few pastries he began the process of taking his leave. He had a question of research waiting for him at his lodgings, and regretted leaving her so soon, et cetera, et cetera.

It was no surprise, though she did feel a slight sting.

Emma rose, and offered her hand. “Mr Clare. Do be reasonable. You have endured much in the service of Britannia, and I thank you for your courage and the care you have shown for the Empire’s interests. You are under no social obligation to me. I know how sorcery … discommodes you.”

He took her hand, pumped it twice. He was outright crimson now. “Not the case,” he mumbled, swallowed visibly. “Not the case at all. Miss Bannon, you are … You are a …”

She waited, patiently. He did not turn loose her hand. There were many words he could choose. Sorceress. Bitch. Whore. Managing female.

He finally found one that suited him, drew himself up. “You, Miss Bannon, are a very logical sorceress.”

Her jaw threatened to drop. Of all the epithets flung at her, she had never experienced that one. A second, very queer lightness began in the region of Emma’s chest. “Thank you.”

He nodded, dropped her hand as if it had burned him, and turned to leave.

“Mr Clare.”

He stopped next to a false orange tree. The climate globe around it jangled sweetly. His thinning hair did not disguise the way the skin over his pate was even more deeply crimson.

Thankfully, she had a gift she could offer to match his own. “I trust your digestion is still sound?”

“As a bell, madam.” He did not turn to face her.

Emma took a deep breath. “May I invite you to dinner? Perhaps on Sunday? You may bring Ludovico, and Mr Baerbarth. If they wish to attend.” If they wish to avail themselves of my table without absolutely being required to do so. Odd. This is the first time that has occurred.

Clare turned, retraced his steps, grabbed her hand, and pumped it furiously. “I say! Of course! Honoured to. Honoured. Sig will be beside himself.”

“Sunday, then. Shall we say six? I dine early.”

“Certainly!” And after a few more furious pumps of her hand, he was gone. She closed her eyes, tracing his progress through the house. Mr Finch let him out of the front door, and by the time Clare reached the laurel hedge he was whistling.

She brought her attention back to the sunroom. Mikal would be along at any moment. Her hand had slid into her skirt pocket, and she drew forth the stone that had fallen from Llewellyn’s body. It had been on her nightstand when she awoke.

Had Mikal placed it there? Did he have any idea what it was?

It was deep red, flat on one side and curved on the other. Smooth and glassy, and when she tilted it, it throbbed. A pulse too deep for the stone’s shallowness, a slow, steady beat.

Like a dragon’s heart, perchance.

Two stones, and he was reserving one? One stone gifted to him in advance, one later? Or there was only one stone to begin with, and he was paid at the beginning? But how could they be certain he would do what they wished? And who among the wyrms would have slain one of their own young for this?

Who crafted that simulacrum in Bedlam?

She cupped the stone in her gloved hands. Its pulse slowed as it basked, drinking in the sunlight.

The gryphons were at his body. And should I visit Dinas Emrys now, I would find nothing but anonymous bones. Still … it troubles me.

Llewellyn Gwynnfud had always troubled her.

It was difficult to undo her bodice, but she managed. She slid the stone against the bare skin of her chest,