The Iron Wyrm Affair

Mikal was suddenly there, shoving him against the wall and making a swift movement. The ulp the man made was lost in the sound of the double blow to chin and paunch. Mikal’s fingers flicked, subtracting the ring of heavy iron keys from the broad leather belt. There was a gleam of sharp metal, and the sliced belt thudded to the top step. The man slumped; Mikal lowered him fairly gently.

Clare’s eyebrows nested in his hairline. “Is this really necessary?”

Paused on the second step, Emma strangled a flare of impatience. You are an irritant, mentath. “If Mikal is doing it, yes.”

Mikal already had the correct key selected and inserted into the postern door. “The man reeks of gin,” he remarked. “He was disposed to be troublesome. Petty authority.” His lip curled, disdain clearly visible in the set of his shoulders as well. “He will not remember us.”

“Let us hope as much.” Clare did not sound convinced.

The door opened with a small groan; Mikal glanced inside. He nodded, once, and Emma continued up the stairs.

They plunged into Bedlam’s grey confusion. Gaslamps hissed down the long hall, and she braced herself. For a moment the walls rippled, the entire hungry, semi-sentient pile of stone resonating as it took notice of what she was.

The Endor! The Endor is here! A mouthless, windless whisper, unheard by living ears, brushed against the surfaces of her skin and clothing. Grey smokelike figures crowded close, their sighs rising in volume as they sensed she could hear them. Ghostly fingers brushed her, slipping over the smooth, hard shell of a Prime’s will; Mikal half turned and caught her arm. At the Shield’s touch, the entire hallway clicked back into place with a sub-audible thump.

Another of a Shield’s functions – an anchor. The more ætheric force a sorcerer could carry, the more danger of being lost on the currents the rest of humanity could not feel.

“Miss Bannon?” Clare, with a faint touch of concern. “You’ve gone quite white.”

“Quite well,” she murmured. Found her usual crisp tone again. “I am quite well, thank you. Mikal? Llewellyn is down the hall to the right. Fifth door, I believe.”

“He will not be happy to see us,” Mikal observed, but his grip was bruising-hard.

No, he did not like his Prima setting foot in this place. She was a fool to mistrust him. A traitorous warmth bloomed in her belly, was sternly shelved. And yet, how long before he decided she was as expendable as Crawford had evidently been?

Now is not the time for that thought. “We are not visiting him for tea.” She followed his pressure on her arm. Surely it was not weakness to feel grateful. Entering Bedlam by herself would be … uncomfortable. “All the same, Mikal …” Be prepared, for I am exhausted. And more than that, Llewellyn would like nothing better than to injure us both.

“Say no more.” He slanted her a deadly unamused glance, his mouth a thin straight line. Shortened his stride to match hers, while the mentath trailed in their wake. The corridor was stone-floored and reeked of pain and filth. At least it was swept, and the barred iron doors to either side merely vibrated uneasily. The place had quieted, at least physically, only faint echoes of faraway moans piercing the hush.

Other senses were not nearly so easily lulled. She folded her free hand over Mikal’s, ignoring his second, slightly startled glance. The added contact helped shunt aside the screaming rush of whispered agony roaring through the hall, lifting strands of her hair on an unphysical breeze.

“Something’s amiss.” She was barely aware of speaking. “Badly amiss.”

Mikal slowed, tense and alert. Their footsteps echoed. “I suppose it would do no good to ask you to—”

Retreat? In the service of the Queen? I hardly think so. “No good at all, my Shield.”

“Miss Bannon?” Clare had caught up, and offered his arm on her other side. “May I be of assistance?”

It was a curious gesture, but one she appreciated. She loosed her grip on Mikal’s hand and took Clare’s arm as well. After all, she was a lady now. No matter how often she had the urge to repeat blue words. “Thank you, Mr Clare. This place is … distressing, to any sorcerer.”

The hallway swayed under her feet, but Mikal’s arm was steady, and so was Clare’s. The misery of this place was dark wine against her palate, stroking against her will with a cat’s-tongue rasp.

“Fifth door.” Mikal’s tone suggested he was extraordinarily alert. His arm was tense, muscle standing out under her fingers, and he slowed. “Mentath. The key is on a hook, just there.”

“Ah. Yes.” The mentath’s long face pinched together, a change from its usual bright interest. Faint distaste swirled from him, a powdery blue to Sight, and Emma’s prie-dieu sparked. It was taking more force than she liked to insulate herself from the dead crowding these halls, and the despair locked in the fabric of the building was troubling as well.

If Llewellyn Gwynnfud, Lord Sellwyth, had any sanity remaining, this place might well rob him of it.

The door was locked and barred, rivulets of golden charm and charter symbols sliding down its scarred iron surface. Clare peered through the observation slit, studiously avoiding touching it. He blinked, absorbing whatever vista the slit presented for a long moment. “Miss Bannon? Is it safe to unlock the door?”

“The charm and charter won’t harm you, Mr Clare.” Her voice came from very far away, but it carried all its usual briskness. Thank Heaven for that. “Its only function is to contain.”

“Very well, then.” He settled back on his heels and inserted the clumsy key into the lock. He even lifted the iron bar out of its brackets and set it aside, handling the bulk with startling ease for such a lean man. “I should warn you, it appears the patient is awake and expecting us.”

“Well, good.” Asperity tinted her tone. “I would hate to have to disturb a gentleman’s slumber. Or question his corpse.”

The air quivered as Clare gingerly folded his hand around the door handle; he pulled and it slid open with little trouble, well oiled. The charter symbols runnelled uneasily, but Mikal exhaled very softly and they calmed.

Llewellyn was indeed awake.

The stone cube was comfortless, and chill. A straw pallet was tossed in one corner, but it would do no good to a man trapped inside ætheric containment in the middle of the floor. Charm and charter wandered golden over the walls, and Emma blinked. Most odd. Most exceedingly odd – who closed him in here? Old work, very old.

The sorcerer sat in the exact centre of the Circle, its blue lines shifting over stone flagstones. He was shockingly dirty, as if he had rubbed filth into his own garments – the remains of an opera suit, draggled with dirt and torn in interesting places. His face was streaked with grime, and it was difficult to ascertain his features for a moment. They smeared like ink on wet paper, but perhaps it was only her vision blurring with fatigue.

Mikal’s arm tightened. She knew what he was thinking – Where are his Shields?

She had seen no profit in informing him that the Shields had been found disembowelled. Which was, if one thought about it, the only way to cause enough damage to keep a Shield truly incapable of combat for long enough to kill him.

“Good evening, Llewellyn.” I sound quite calm. Very well, that.

For he needed precious little of an opening to rob her of her composure.

His head lifted, strings of decaying blond hair twining with a life of their own, mixing with a grey Gwynnfud would have been infuriated with. With no charm to keep the colour its usual parchment pale, and none of the enhancements he favoured, he looked much less prepossessing than usual.

His long fingers spasmed, twisting together, and a glimmer of charm appeared on them. She tensed, and so did the Circle, its blue lines cavorting in intricate knots. It ran over the floor in wet streaks, and something about it was not as it should be, either.

“Emma.” The word echoed through shifting veils of sorcerous interference. He sounded sane, at least. Terribly, calmly sane. Which was perhaps the worst that could befall them.

For while Emma Bannon was certain she could handle a sorcerer gripped in madness, a sane and mocking Llewellyn was another matter entirely.