“How long?” The Neapolitan examined his palm – smooth, unbroken skin, criss-crossed by thin faint lines where other bindings had been sworn. He arched one sleek eyebrow, and his white teeth showed as his lip lifted.
“You have other pressing appointments, I take it? As long as it is necessary, Ludovico. Until I take the binding off. You’d best hope nothing happens to me, too.” Even the candleflame stung her suddenly sensitive eyes. They squeezed shut with no prompting on her part, tears rising reflexively.
“Home?” Mikal pulled her away, and she made no demur.
“Yes. Home. Come along, Mr Clare.”
“Yes, well.” Clare cleared his throat. “Archibald Clare. Mentath. How do you do.”
She prised one eyelid open enough to see Clare offering his hand to the Neapolitan.
“Ludovico Valentinelli. Murderer and thief. Your servant, sir.” Those dark eyes had lit with something very much like amusement.
“Murd—” Clare audibly thought better of finishing the word. “Well. Very interesting. A pleasure. I shall accompany Miss Bannon to her home, then, and wait for our next meeting.”
“Do that. And be careful with la signora; be a shame to lose her pretty face. Give me my knife, strega.”
“Oh no.” Her fingers tightened on the leather-wrapped hilt. The blade’s sensitised now; it could cut that binding I just laid on you. Try again, bandit. “That wouldn’t do at all, Ludo. Mikal shall leave you the one you flung at me, though. Pleasant dreams.”
There was a sharp meaty sound as Ludovico’s knife thudded into the wall aross the room, and Mikal’s lip curled. The Neapolitan’s curses followed them out of the door, but she could tell he was intrigued.
Good.
The hectic strength sustaining her after dancing with Mehitabel had largely deserted its post by the time they reached Mayefair. In any case, she could not search for more answers until morning and a visit to the Collegia. The darkened foyer was a balm, the house sleepily taking notice of her return. The rooms would be ready, since the servants were well accustomed to her appearing and disappearing at odd hours.
Emma could wish that it was not quite so routine. “I suggest you take some rest, Mr Clare.” She could finally occupy herself in stripping the remains of her gloves from her aching hands.
The mentath was remarkably spry. “Oh, indubitably. I shall no doubt sleep well. You have some interesting friends, Miss Bannon.”
I have few “friends”, Mr Clare. “Valentinelli is not a friend. He is more… a non-enemy. I amuse him, he is reliable. Especially once he is hedged with a blood oath.”
“Yes, well, I am not at all certain I like the idea of a filthy Italian bleeding on me.” Clare actually sniffed. “But if you say he is capable, Miss Bannon, I shall take you at your word. I shall expect him at dawn or shortly after.”
She gave up on her gloves and leaned into Mikal’s hand on her arm. “Breakfast will be shortly after Tideturn. I presume your agile faculties are even now turning over the question of how and where to—”
“Oh yes. In fact, I have tomorrow’s investigation planned.”
Her conscience pinched, but she was, blessedly, too tired to care. “Good.” She took an experimental step toward the stairs; Mikal moved with her. The Shield’s frustration and annoyance was bright lemon yellow to Sight; her temples throbbed as it communicated to her.
“Miss Bannon?”
For the love of Heaven, what now? “Yes?”
“You have suddenly decided this Valentinelli is sufficient protection for my fragile person. Either you have a high faith in his capabilities, or—”
Or I shall dangle you in the water and see which fish rises. You do well to suspect me, sir. “I have become a much larger threat to these conspirators than you, Mr Clare. And by now, they are informed of it. You may take some comfort, at least, in that.”
Wisely, perhaps, Clare left it at that. Emma set herself to climbing the stairs and navigating halls. Her skirts dragged, the Wark’s ash still clung to her despite carefully applied cleaning-charms, and her Shield was about to explode.
He had the grace to keep himself quiet until the door to her dressing room opened, and she moved as if to free herself from his grasp. Her bed had rarely seemed so welcoming.
“Emma.” Quietly.
Please. Not now. But he had apparently decided that yes, now was the time for a discussion.
“A dragon, Emma.”
One of the Timeless, albeit a young wyrm. “Yes.” She fixed her gaze on the shadowed bulk of one wardrobe, the dressing room’s interior faintly glowing from the pale grey carpet and the plain silk hangings. “You should have taken the mentath and fled.”
“Leaving you to Mehitabel.” A single shake of his dark head, one she felt through his hand on her arm. “You should not ask such things of me.”
“What should I ask of you, then? I am very tired, Mikal.”
“A dragon, Emma.”
You are repeating yourself. “I am fully aware of what transpired at the Blackwerks. The ironwyrm had orders to kill me. Those orders could only have come from another of the Timeless; a dragon would not care to obey a sorcerer, even to kill another of our ilk.” She stared at the wardrobe. “And Britannia herself warns me that if Grayson is in league with the wyrms, her protection may not be enough. They are dangerous, and her compact with them is old and fragile. To them, we are merely temporary guests, and our Empire a wisp of cloud.”
“Then why should they care if…” It struck him. He stiffened, his fingers clamping her flesh. “Ah.”
“Someone has made them care for this piece of mechanisterum, Mikal. I must find out precisely who and neutralise the threat they represent to Britannia, or even the possible military uses of a logic engine will be beside the point. I am extraordinarily fatigued. You may retire.”
He still did not let go. “What if I have no wish to retire?”
“Then you may dance in the conservatory or paint in the kitchen for all I care. Turn loose.”
He did, but when she paced unsteadily into her dressing room he followed, closing the door with a faint but definite snick.
Every piece of jewellery on her tired body was dark and dead spent. She was barely upright, and if he sought to free himself of the shackle of duty to another sorcerer, there was no better time. She halted, swaying unsteadily, in a square of moonlight from the glass panels set in the ceiling, charter symbols sliding sleepily over them in constellation patterns.
And she waited.
His breath touched her hair. The closeness was too comforting; she shut her eyes and thought of Ludovico’s filthy fingernails, the healthy animal smell of him, alcohol and exertion. Mikal was perfumed only with soot and the familiar tang of sorcery, a faint hint of maleness underneath.
It was useless. The pointless urge, once more, rose in her throat. This time she did not bar it. “Thrent,” she whispered. “Jourdain. Harry. Namal.”
“They betrayed you.” Intimate, the touch of air against her ear. She shivered, swaying again, but he didn’t touch her. “That was why they died.”
Tall, dark Thrent. Small, blond, agile Jourdain. Harry with his smile, Namal with his gravity.
“They did not betray me. He killed them.” The last name. She licked her dry, smoke-tarnished lips, said it to rob it of power: “Miles Crawford.”
“He hurt you.” So soft. “So he died. And they allowed themselves to be taken by surprise; their betrayal was in their carelessness. I would have murdered them myself for it, if he had not.”
They eliminated the rest of his Shields while Crawford sprang his trap on me. It was my fault, of course. I judged myself too highly. “Very comforting.” But her breath caught. He leaned a little closer, the almost-touch paradoxically, exquisitely more intimate than his fingertips could ever hope to be.
“You know what I am.” A mere breath.
I am not certain at all. “I have my suspicions.”
And there was the other reason to m
istrust him. For there were certain troubling things she had observed in her Shield, and if her suspicions were correct, the ease with which he had throttled Crawford was a dire sign indeed.
“Easy enough to prove.”
“What if I prefer them to remain suspicions?” Her voice did not sound like her own. It lacked utterly the bite Emma was accustomed to putting behind each word.
“You cannot abide mysteries, Prima. It is,” he finally touched her, warm fingers sliding under the half-awry mass of her hair, stroking her nape, “a small weakness.”
That you have no idea of my other weaknesses is a very good thing. She raised her chin, pushed her shoulders back, and stepped firmly away from Mikal’s hand. “Thank you, Shield. You may retire.”
His hand fell to his side. “Do you wish me to sleep at your door like a dog?”
Would you? How charming. Her shoes were filthy; she had tracked cinderfall and God alone knew what else into the house. The maids would have a time of it in the morning. Another dress ruined, too, and sending a bill to Grayson was not likely to gain her any remuneration.
And unless she wished to ring a bell and wake someone to help her undress, Mikal would. It was, after all, part of a Shield’s function to act as valet – or lady’s maid, as the case may be.
“D—n your eyes.” Unladylike, yes. But her flesh crawled, and her temper had worn thin.
“Is that a yes or a no?” He even sounded amused, blast him to the seventh Hell of Tripurnis.
Her only answer was to tack for her bedroom. Her bedraggled skirts were lead blankets, her bloomers chafed, and she would have had a special demise planned for her corset, had she not been so utterly exhausted. Let him do as he pleased. She was far too tired to care.
Or so she tried to tell herself, as she heard his footsteps behind her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Becoming Acquainted
Tideturn came slightly after dawn, filling the city with humming expectancy. The fog had not lifted, and there was no steady rain to keep it in check, just a few flirting spatters every now and again. The city smelled venomous, an odour that penetrated even Miss Bannon’s sorcerously sealed dominion.
Despite that, breakfast was, as Clare had come to expect, superlative. The only dimming of his enjoyment came from the presence of the pox-scarred Neapolitan, who strolled in with great familiarity and proceeded to show terrible manners. The man’s nails were no longer caked with filth, and he had somewhere found a respectable black wool waistcoat and a flashboy’s watch chain, as well as a stickpin with a small, vile purple gem of no worth whatsoever. His high-collar shirt was of fine quality, but he still looked almost like a carter uneasy with high company. It was, the mentath decided, a carefully chosen façade.
Valentinelli’s boots had belonged to a gentleman once, and Clare found himself engaging in unsupported speculation about how they had found their way to the Neapolitan’s clumping feet.
The man could, Clare thought, walk lightly as a cat. He was choosing not to, stamping around the exquisite Delft-and-cream breakfast room. The soothing jacquard of the blinds was probably wasted on the assassin, who gave the room a single glance – rather as a general would take in the terrain – and grunted at Clare, before loading a plate with all manner of provender and leering at one of the maids. Who simply ignored him with a toss of her honeybrown head.
Clare took this to mean she had some prior experience of the man.
Very interesting indeed.
Valentinelli filled his mouth with sausage, crammed in an egg, and chewed with great relish. He slurped his tea, wiping his fingers on the fine waistcoat – all the while standing between two potted palms whose charmed crystal cover-globes sang a wandering, tinkling melody. Clare studied him for a few more moments, sipping his tea meditatively and nibbling at kippers on toast. The furniture here was surprisingly light and ladylike. From the size of the two small tables, Miss Bannon usually breakfasted alone.
Madame Noyon had left him to it after pouring tea; most likely she was attending to Miss Bannon’s morning toilette and the business of running the house according to her employer’s wishes. The breakfast table was of pale ash wood, its legs carved with water lilies and its cloth stunning white; the breakfast plate was delicate silver and stamped with a swan under a lightning bolt. Very Greque of the woman, indeed.
Clare crunched the last of his kippers and toast, washed it down with heavily lemoned tea, and decided to hazard a throw.
“I say, signor. You have quite the noble carriage.”
The Neapolitan gave him one swift, evil glance. He took another huge bite of sausage, let his mouth fall open while chewing. His scarred cheeks had turned pale.
Clare dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “It is marvellously interesting that you are not a natural at rudeness. You were trained in fine manners. Your habit of performing the exact opposite of those manners gives you away.”
A flush touched the Neapolitan’s neck. Clare smiled inwardly. It was so satisfying to deduce correctly.
“A Campanian nobleman? Your accent, which you take pains to disguise, is too refined for anything else. But you left your homeland young, signor. You have adopted the English method of slurping tea, and you wear the watch chain as a costume piece instead of as a true hevvy or a carter would. And though you are no doubt very good with a dagger, it is the rapier that is your true love. Yours is an old house, where such things are still a mark of honour.”
The Neapolitan grunted. His muscle-corded shoulders were tense.
Clare was actually—Was he? Yes. He was enjoying himself. The man presented a solvable puzzle, not without its dangers but well worth a morning’s diversion.
“Very well then, keep your secrets.” He considered another cup of tea, tapping his toe lightly. “This morning we shall go a-visiting. A friend of mine, or rather a close acquaintance. His is a respectable address; you may find yourself bored.”
The Neapolitan swallowed a wad of insulted provender. When he spoke, it was in the tones of a wearied upper-class Exfall student, complete with precisely paced crispness on the long vowels. “If you keep talking, sir, I shan’t be bored at all. Disgusted, perhaps, but not bored.” No trace of Italy marred the words – the mimicry was near perfect. He grimaced, his tongue showing flecks of chewed sausage and crumbs of fried egg as he stuck it out as far as possible.
At that moment the door opened, and Miss Bannon appeared. There were faint smudges under her dark eyes, and she cocked her head as Clare rose hastily.
“Good morning. I see you two are becoming acquainted.” Today it was dark blue wool, a travelling dress. The jewellery was plain, too – another cameo at her throat, four plain silver bands on her left hand and a sapphire on her right ring finger, her earrings long jet drops that would have been vulgar had she been wearing mourning. A brooch of twisted fluid silver alive with golden charter-charms completed the ensemble, and her hatpins dangled short strings of twinkling blue beads. The hat itself, small, blue, and exquisitely expensive, sat at a jaunty angle on her dark curls. It was not a bonnet, and he was obliquely gladdened to see so. Aesthetically, this was far more pleasing.
“I am gratified to see you well, Miss Bannon. Good morning.”
The Neapolitan merely made a chuffing sound and buried his snout in more food.
“You seem to have disturbed Signor Valentinelli. Ludovico, do please come and sit down.” She moved across the room, betraying no stiffness or injury, but she winced slightly as she sank into a Delft-cushioned chair opposite Clare, who lowered himself back down and eyed the teapot.
Mikal appeared, tidy dark hair and a fresh high-collared coat of the same dark green velvet, his glove-boots soundless as he nodded at Clare and began filling a plate.
Valentinelli glowered at the sorceress, swallowing another mass. “When you take the blood oath off, strega, I kill him.” The Italian was back, singing under the surface of his words. Strengthening morning light fell pearly and pale across his scars, picking o
ut the fresh grease stains on his waistcoat.
Miss Bannon examined him for a long moment, her hands motionless on the carved chair arms. “That would distress me,” she remarked, mildly enough. The charter symbols cascading over the glass panels in the ceiling shivered, wheeling apart and coming together in new patterns. A brief rattle of rain touched them, steaming off immediately, leaving streaks of dust.
“Maybe I let him live. For you.” The Neapolitan let out a resounding belch.
“Your magnanimousness fills me with gratitude.” Miss Bannon accepted a plate of fruit and toast from Mikal. There was a small, very fresh and livid bruise on the side of her neck, low near the delicate arch of her collarbone, and Clare’s eyebrows almost raised. It was extraordinarily uncomfortable to see such a thing.
Well. She is sorceress, and may do as she pleases, but still.
The Shield was the same, impenetrable. But his fingers brushed her shoulder as he turned away from serving her breakfast, and his yellow eyes were a trifle sleepy-lidded. Clare’s estimation of their relationship twisted sideways a few crucial degrees. His organ of Remembrance, having had time to search through dusty vaults and cellars, served up something quite interesting.
The scandal surrounding Miles Crawford, Duke of Embraith and Sorcerer Prime, had been only glancingly mentioned by a former employer. Clare had simply stored the details and moved on, uninterested but unable to let any information leave his grasp unmarked. The Duke had been caught embezzling from the Crown, or some such; there were whispers of some bad form, which could mean anything from wiping his nose incorrectly at his club to the pleasures of Sodom. There had been no breath of sorcery surrounding his demise, which Clare had found a trifle odd at the time, but it did not warrant his attention. Sorcery was not a matter he found of great interest, and he had been… busy.
That had been the last time he crossed wits with Dr Vance, and the memory was pleasing and bitter at once. The pleasure of such an opponent and the bitterness of being outfoxed that once warred with each other most improperly.