She shuddered. Clare retched again, feelingly. “A range!” he choked. “From thirty-three to eighty-nine per cent! It can only be explained in a range!”
Dear God, is he seeking to analyse Mehitabel? Or the rats? “Clare.” She coughed, caught her breath. I think we may have survived. Perhaps. “Clare, cease. There are other problems requiring your attention.”
“Prima.” Mikal’s hand on her shoulder, his fingers iron clamps. “Emma.”
She swayed, but only slightly. “You’ve done well.” Well? More like “magnificently”. One Shield, a small army of Mehitabel’s flashboys, the rats – I cannot understand how we are not all dead.
Either she had hurt the ironwyrm far more than she thought possible or likely, or Mehitabel had expected Emma to flee in a different direction – perhaps north, the way they had entered the Wark. Or – most chilling, but a prospect that must be considered – Mehitabel the Black let them go for some wyrm-twisting reason, even though Emma had used her truename.
“Easy hunting.” Mikal’s mouth twisted up at one corner, a fey grimace. The ash gave him an old man’s hair, caught in his eyebrows, drifting on his shoulders. “Her troops are clumsy, and loud, and had to check every dark corner.”
“What problems?” Clare managed, through another retch. “Never. Never again.”
“Oh, we shall brave the Wark again, if duty demands it.” Emma let out a shaky breath. The idea of going home, throwing her corset into the grate, and watching it burn was extraordinarily satisfying. “But not tonight. At the moment, Mr Clare, we are on Greenwitch, and I wish you to help me find a hansom.”
“Oh, excellent,” Clare moaned. “Wonderful. What the deuce for?”
“To ride in, master of deduction.” Her tone was more tart than she intended. “We have news to deliver.”
It was past midnight, and the stable smelled of hay and dry oily flanks. Restless movement in the capacious stalls, half-opened eyes, the perches overhead full of a rustling stillness.
The gryphons were nervous. Iridescent plumage ruffled, spike feathers mantling; sharp amber or obsidian beaks clacked once or twice, breaking the quiet. Tawny or coal-dark flanks rippled with muscle, claws flexing in the darkness. Emma stood very still, carefully in the middle of the central passage, her skirts pulled close. Mikal was so near she could feel the heat of him.
Clare peered over one stall door, his eyes wide. “Fascinating,” he breathed. “Head under wing. Indeed. The musculature is wonderful. Wonderful.”
The gryphon stable was long and high, dim but not completely dark. Britannia’s proud steeds took sleepy notice, ruffling as they scented a Prime.
Of all the meats gryphons preferred, they adored sorcery-seasoned best.
Mikal’s hand rested on Emma’s shoulder, a welcome weight. A door at the far end opened, quietly, skirts rustling on a breath of golden rose scent, overlaid with violet-water. Emma stiffened. Clare did not straighten, leaning over the stall’s door like a child peering into a sweetshop.
“Mr Clare,” the sorceress whispered. “Do stop that, sir. They are dangerous.”
“Indeed they are.” A female voice, high and young, but with the stamp of absolute authority on each syllable. “No, my friend, do not courtesy. We know you must be uncomfortable here.”
Emma sank down into a curtsey anyway, glad she had applied cleaning charms to all three of them. Mikal’s hand remained on her shoulder, and Clare hopped down from the stall door, hurriedly doffing his hat. “And who do we have the pleasure of—Dear God!” He lurched forward into a bow. “Your Majesty!”
Alexandrina Victrix, the new Queen and Britannia’s current incarnation, pushed back her capacious sable-velvet hood. Her wide blue eyes danced merrily, but her mouth turned down at the corners. “Is this a mentath?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Emma forced her legs to straighten. “One of the few remaining in Londinium, Mr Archibald Clare.”
“Your Majesty.” Clare had turned decidedly pink around his cheekbones, though the sorceress doubted any eyes but hers would see it.
Emma’s mouth wanted to twitch, but the business at hand dispelled any amusement. “I bring grave news for Britannia.”
“Since when do you not? You are Our stormcrow; We shall have Dulcie make you a mantle of black feathers.” The Queen’s young face could not stay solemn for long, but a shadow moved behind her eyes. “We jest. Do not think yourself undervalued.”
“I would not presume,” Emma replied, a trifle stiffly. “Your Majesty… I have failed you. The core is missing.”
The young woman was silent for a few moments, her dark hair – braided in twin loops over her ears, but slightly dishevelled, as if she had been called from sleep – glinting in the dimness. Even so, pearls hung from her tender ears, and a simple strand of pearls clasped her slim throat. The shadow in her eyes grew, and her young face changed by a crucial fraction. “Missing?”
“I left it with Mehitabel.” Emma’s chin held itself firmly high. “It was taken with her consent. She gave me names.”
“The dragons are involved? Most interesting.” The Queen tapped her lips with a slim white finger; under the cloak her red robe was patterned with gold-thread fleur-de-lis. The shadow of age and experience passed more clearly over her face, features changing and blurring like clay under water. The signet on her left hand flashed, its single charter symbol fluorescing briefly before returning to quiescence. “This was Our miscalculation, Prima. The Black Mistress has been true to her word before; it is… disconcerting to find she is no longer. What names were you given?”
Some very uncomfortable ones. “I almost fear to say.”
“Fear? You?” The Queen’s laugh echoed, an ageless ripple of amusement. “Unlikely. You wish more proof, and to finish this matter to your own satisfaction, if not Ours.”
Emma almost winced. Britannia was old, and wise. The spirit of rule had seen many such as her come and go. She was the power of Empire; was a Prime, in the end, was merely a human servant. “She mentioned the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Llewellyn Gwynnfud, Lord Sellwyth. And another name. Vortis.”
Feathers whispered like a wheatfield under summer wind as the gryphons took notice. Lambent eyes opened, lit with phosphorescent dust. Mikal’s fingers tightened, a silent bolstering.
Yet a still small voice inside her whispered that Mehitabel’s flashboys had not chased them nearly enough. And Llewellyn, of course. How long will it be before he strangles you, as he did Crawford?
“That name is… not well known to Us. But known enough.” Deep lines etched themselves on the Queen’s soft cheeks. The fine hairs on Emma’s arms and legs and nape rose, tingling as if she stood in the path of a Greater Work or even the unloosing of a Discipline. The gryphons stirred again, and a blue spark danced in the Queen’s pupils as the power that was Britannia woke further and peered out of her chosen vessel. “And the Chancellor, you say? Grayson?”
“A wyrm’s word—” Emma began, hurriedly, but the Queen’s finger twitched and she swallowed the remainder of the sentence.
“If he be innocent, he hath nothing to fear from thee, Prima. Thy judgement shall be thorough, but above all unerring.” The blue spark brightened, widening until it filled the Queen’s dilated pupils.
A not-so-subtle reminder. Emma’s mouth was dry. She had, indeed, lied to Victrix about Crawford, and by extension, she had lied to Britannia. The ruling spirit of Empire had either chosen to believe Emma’s version of events in the round stone room, or – more likely – she guessed at the truth and reserved her judgement because Emma was useful. “I am uneasy, Your Majesty. Too much is unknown.”
Britannia retreated like Tideturn along the Themis, a rushing weight felt more than heard. The Queen blinked, pulling her cloak closer. “Then you shall uncover it. And the mentath…”
“Yesmum?” Clare drew himself up very straight indeed, his long, lanky frame poker-stiff. “Your Majesty?”
The Queen actually smiled, becoming a girl again.
“Is he trustworthy, Prima?”
I am the wrong person to ask, my Queen. I do not even trust myself. “I think so. Certainly he faced the ironwyrm with much presence of mind.”
“Then tell him everything. We cannot finish this without a mentath; it would seem Britannia is favoured in these as well as in sorceresses.” Victrix paused. “And Emma…”
Her pulse sought to quicken; training pressed down upon Emma’s traitorous body. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Be careful. If the Chancellor is involved, Britannia’s protection may… wear thin, and Alberich Our Consort is not overfond of sorcerers. Do you understand?”
Britannia rules, but we cannot move openly against a Chancellor of the Exchequer without compromising the Cabinet. Your lady mother would love to intrude another of her creatures to said Cabinet, and your Consort is not only low of influence but also dislikes sorcerers with an almost religious passion. So it is quiet, and deadly, and everything must be kept as smooth as possible. “Quite, Your Majesty.”
And, not so incidentally, if any part of this becomes a scandal, I will be the one to feel its sting.
“We use you dreadfully.” The Queen stepped back, a heavy rustle of velvet, and the gryphons murmured, a susurrus of sharp-edged feathers.
“I am Britannia’s subject.” Stiffly, she sank into another curtsey. “I am to be used.”
“I wish…” But the Queen shook her dark head, her braids swinging, and was gone. The open door let in a draught of garden-scented night, tinged with the violet-water she favoured, and closed softly.
Clare’s mouth was suspiciously ajar. “That was the Queen.” He sounded stunned.
Indeed it was. “We are wont to meet here, when occasion calls for it.” And God help her, but did she not sound proud? That pride, another of her besetting sins.
“Little sorceress.” A rush of feathers ruffling; the voice was gravel-deep and quiet, but full of hurtful edges. An amber beak slid over the closest stall door, and Emma’s knees turned suspiciously weak.
The eyes were deep darkness ringed with gold, an eagle’s stare in a head larger than her own torso. Feathered with ink-black, the powerful neck vanished into the stall’s dimness, and Mikal was somehow before her, his shoulders blocking the view of the gryphon as it clacked its beak once, a sound like lacquered blocks of dense wood slamming together.
“Close enough, skycousin,” Mikal said mildly.
“Merely a mouthful.” The gryphon laughed. “But I am not so hungry tonight, even for magic. Listen.”
Clare stepped forward, as if fascinated, staring at the gryphon’s left forelimb, which had crept up to the stall door and closed around the thick wood, burnished obsidian claws sinking in. “Fabulous musculature,” he muttered, and the gryphon clacked its beak again. It looked… amused, its eyes twin cruel glints.
“Mr Clare.” A horrified whisper; Emma’s throat was dry. “They are carnivores.”
“They look well fed.” The mentath cocked his head, and his lean face was alight with something suspiciously close to joy. “Yes, that beak is definitely from a bird of prey.”
“Enough.” The gryphon’s head turned sidelong; he fixed Emma with one bright eye. “Sorceress. We know Vortis of old.” The claws tightened. “You go wyrm-hunting, then.”
It was the gryphons’ ancient alliance with Britannia that had held the island stable, as the Age of Flame strangled on its own ash and the dragons returned to slumber. Or so it was told, and any study of the beasts was hazardous enough that very few sorcerers would attempt it. Emma stared at the creature’s beak – its sharp edges, the flickering of dim light over the deep-pitted nostrils. How the creatures spoke without lips fit for such an operation was a mystery indeed; gryphons were not dissected after their deaths.
No, they ate their own. She suppressed a shudder, grateful for Mikal’s presence between her and the creature. “Perhaps. A wyrm’s word is a castle built on sand.”
“Or air.” The proud head lowered in a terrifying approximation of a nod. “You should have more Shields, sorceress.”
“I have as many as I require at the moment.” The ironwyrm would have had me, but for Mikal. And yet.
“We are many, and you are a tempting morsel.” A laugh like boulders grinding. “But we are sleepy, too. You should go now.”
I think so. For she noted the subtle tension in the beast’s forelimb, raven feathers shading into blue-black fur. “Thank you. Mr Clare, do come along.”
“A whole new area of study—” Clare, his sharp blue eyes positively feverish, stepped closer to the gryphon’s claw.
Mikal lunged forward. The wood of the stall door groaned, splintering, and the Shield yanked Clare back, tearing his already worse-for-wear frock coat. The gryphon’s claw closed on empty air, and the beast chuckled.
“Enough,” Mikal said, pleasantly. “Stand near my Prima.” He did not take his eyes from the beast. “That was unwise, skycousin.”
“He is a mere nibble anyway, and unseasoned.” The gryphon’s eyes half lidded. “No matter. Take them and go, Nágah. Safe winds.”
“Fair flying.” Mikal stepped back. “Prima?”
“This way, Mr Clare.” She made her hands unclench, grabbed the mentath’s sleeve. “And do not pass too closely to the stalls.”
Clare did not reply. But he did not demur, either. When they finally eased free of the stable’s northern door and into the close-melting fog scraping the surface of the road and Greens Park beyond, Emma found she was trembling.
Chapter Nineteen
For My Tender Person
Greens Park was utterly deserted, yellow fog turning impenetrable black in places, licking the lawns and tangled trees. This close to the Palace, the shadows were free of thieves and thugs. Such would not be the case in other Londinium parklands.
They walked a fair distance to reach Picksdowne, Clare muttering to himself about musculature for a good deal of the way. It was absolutely fascinating, and he found himself wondering what discoveries one could make if a gryphon corpse happened to appear in one’s workshop. He knew little of the beasts save that they were the only animals fit to draw Britannia’s carriage; their riders were highly trained officers, and there had been corps of gryphon-riders used as sky cavalry in the battles with the damned Corsican—
Beside him, Miss Bannon cleared her throat. She was occupied in seeking to restore the ragged mass of her gloves.
“Oh yes.” He had almost forgotten her presence, so intrigued was he by the glimpse of a new unknown. One that obeyed patterns, one that helped the hideous memory of Southwark recede. “There are things you no doubt wish to tell me, Miss Bannon.”
“Indeed.” Was there a catch in her voice? On her other side, the Shield stepped lightly, a trifle closer than was perhaps his habit.
The gryphons had severely shaken Miss Bannon. She was paper-pale, and her fingers nervously scrubbed themselves together while she sought to straighten her gloves. Still, she pressed onward over the gravelled walk, and her pace did not slacken. “What do you know of Masters the Elder? And Throckmorton?”
“Nothing more than their names: mentaths are acquainted with their peers only so far. I can surmise a great deal, Miss Bannon, but it is as the analysis you invited me to provide: a trap. Perhaps you should simply enlighten me.”
The amount of shaky grievance she could fit into a simple sigh was immense. “Perhaps I should. In any case, the Queen commanded—”
“And she is not here to enforce said command.”
A palpable hit, for she stiffened slightly before forging onwards, crisply and politely. “Pray do not insult me so, sir. Masters the Elder was engaged in building a core. Throckmorton had made a number of significant breakthroughs, and he and Smythe were brought together despite the danger. Certain advances were made.”
Maddeningly, she ceased her explanation there – or perhaps not maddeningly, for his faculties leapt ahead, devoured this new problem, and his nerves sustained another rather unpleasant s
hock, adding to the night’s already long list of unpleasantnesses.
“A core? Dear lady, you cannot possibly…” What was that cold feeling down his back? His jacket was ripped, certainly, but this was akin to dread. He noted the feeling, sought to put it aside.
It would not go.
“Throckmorton and Smythe, with Masters’s core, achieved the impossible.” She halted, but perhaps that was only because his feet had nailed themselves to the walk. Londinium’s fog pressed close, and the Shield’s gaze rested on his sorceress, yellow eyes lambent in the darkness. “A transmitting, stable, and powerful logic engine.”
The fog had perhaps stolen all the air from the park. Clare stepped back, gravel grinding under his much-abused boots. He stared at the sorceress, who could have no possible idea what she was saying. He actually goggled at her, his jaw suspiciously loose.
“Such an engine…” He wetted his lips, continued. “Such an engine is not impossible. Theoretically, mind you. Extraordinarily difficult and never successfully—”
“I am fully aware it has never been done before. I am no mentath, but I have certain talents as a facilitator and organiser; much scientific work for the Queen can be and is done quietly. I am responsible for arranging such things. The mentaths who have been lately killed were all, in one fashion or another, involved in the making of said engine. The others… well. I am of the opinion many were murdered because of a particular note Throckmorton made of the peculiar nature of logic engines. They require a mentath to utilise them.”
“Well, yes.” Clare shivered. He was not cold. An ordinary person seeking to run a logic engine would be turned into a brain-melted automaton, injured beyond repair by the amplification. Lovelace had been the first to survive the wiring to a very weak engine; several geniuses had assumed that if a woman could endure it, a man’s brain – even a non-mentath’s – would have little difficulty.