Miss Bannon tsked at Valentinelli. “Must you behave in this manner? Mr Clare, I trust you slept well.”
“As well as can be expected. There is a great deal to do today.”
A small nod, very graceful. “Certainly. Mikal?”
The Shield poured his sorceress a cup of tea. As soon as he had delivered it, he produced a sheaf of papers. He handed them silently to Clare, gave the Neapolitan a single scorching look, and turned away to fill his own plate. His breakfast was just as hearty as Valentinelli’s, but he managed it with infinitely more grace. For one thing, he sat to Miss Bannon’s left side and used the silver.
“My, what is this?” The notations were interesting; Clare scanned three pages and grew increasingly still, the breakfast room receding as he concentrated. All thoughts of Vance and old scandal fled. “Dear God.”
“Indeed. That should aid your investigations – and I do not need to remark on the trust implied by even the simple admission of my possession of such papers.”
“Working notes – these are Smythe’s, I take it?”
Another nod, as she sipped tea with exquisite care. “I could not find Throckmorton’s. There was very little left of his residence. There are also a few pages of Masters’s notes on the bottom – they may be of some use as well.”
“Undoubtedly. Thank you, Miss Bannon. This will aid my investigations immensely.”
“There is one more thing.” Her left-hand fingers flicked, the silver rings glinting dully, and a small crystalline pendant on a fine metal chain swung. It glowed even in the weak sunlight, a confection of silver wire and some colourless solid substance he could not immediately identify. “You shall wear this. If you are in dire need, I will be alerted, and I will offer what assistance I can at a distance, and furthermore make every effort to reach you. There is likely to be a great deal of annoyance involved in your investigations.”
“I say. Is that an actual Bocannon’s Nut?” Clare accepted the pendant, and Miss Bannon nodded before buttering her toast.
“With a few improvements, yes. They are time-consuming to create, and they can be broken, so do be careful.”
Valentinelli pulled the last chair away from the small round table, dragging it along the carpet. He dropped into it, crushing the cushion, and banged his plate down on Miss Bannon’s right. “Why you give him that, eh? I tell you I take care of him.”
“Nevertheless.” Miss Bannon’s childlike face was unwontedly grave instead of simply set. “You may have occasion to thank me for it before this affair is finished. Do you recall the second time I made use of your services?”
The Neapolitan actually turned cheese-pale, his pockmarked cheeks singularly unattractive as the blood drained away. “Ci. Incubo, e la giovana signorina. E il sangue. I remember.”
“This is likely to be much worse.” Miss Bannon applied herself to her toast and fruit, delicately conveying an apricot slice to her decided little mouth. “You may now leave the house at any time, Mr Clare, and return as you please. There is a brougham engaged and waiting at the front gate; you have the use of it all day.” A final nod, the curls massed over her ears bouncing. “I suggest you do not loiter.”
The driver was a broad-faced, pleasant man much exercised by the prospect of a full day’s beneficent hire, and his maroon brougham was clean and well ordered. The clockhorses were freshly oiled and springy; the whip cracked smartly, and Valentinelli was suddenly businesslike. The sneering uncouth mask fell away, and what rose to replace it was a calm, unblinking, almost feline stillness.
The Neapolitan proved somewhat less terrible as a travelling companion. Clare had exited Miss Bannon’s house with a shambling carter. Now he sat beside a dangerous man. He held his tongue, his attention divided between Valentinelli’s immobility and the fog-choked, yellow-glowing street outside the window.
Sigmund Baerbarth’s lodging in Clarney Greens was up two flights of stairs, the rooms spacious and well appointed but appallingly old-fashioned. The Bavarian kept them, antiquated as they were, because his workshop was situated directly behind the Queen Anne building holding his lodgings, in a long blue structure that had once been some manner of factory.
There was no chalked circle on the low wooden door inside the draughty building, so Clare tapped twice and entered. Valentinelli muttered a curse, shoving past him to peer at the tangled interior. A horrific noise was coming from the depths of the building, but that was normal enough. The Neapolitan finally nodded, curling a lip at Clare in lieu of simply saying it was safe to enter.
Shafts of sunlight pierced the dusty cavern, hulks of gutted machinery rising on either side. Metal gleamed, cogwheels as tall as Clare’s leg or watchmaker-tiny, bits of oiled leather and horsehair, struts and spars, carapaces and wheels in unholy profusion.
“Sig!” Clare called. “I say, Sigmund! Put the kettle on, you’ve visitors!”
A clanking rumble was the only reply. A mass of metal jerked, shuddering, and Clare watched as it heaved three times, oily steam sputtering from overworked valves. The shape suddenly made sense as he saw insectile legs with high, black-oiled joints. The body, slung below and between them, twitched and shivered. Atop the metal beast’s back, a short pudgy figure held on with grim determination, his arm rising and a monstrous black spanner rising with it. The man brought his arm down decidedly, a massive clanging resounded, and the pile of metal slumped, wheezing clouds of vile-smelling green steam.
The rotund man kept beating at the iron back, making a terrific noise, until it finally splayed on the sawdust-scattered floor, bleeding dark grease and panting scorched steam. A rich basso profundo voice rose, rumbling through quite a few scatological terms Clare might have blushed at had they been in Queen’s English.
“Sig!” he called again. “Good show, I say! You’ve almost got that working.”
“Eh?” Sigmund’s seamed bald head jerked up, the leather-and-brass goggles clamped to his face making his eyes into swimming poached eggs. “Archibald? Guten Tag, man! Wer ist das?”
“Name’s Valentinelli, he’s my insurance. Bit of trouble, old man. I need your advice.”
“Very good!” The Bavarian dropped the spanner with a clatter and hopped down, sawdust puffing from his boots. He wore a machinist’s apron, and when he freed himself from the goggles one could see watery brown eyes under bushy iron-grey brows. His moustache was magnificent, if a trifle singed, and his side whiskers were vast – to make up for his egg-bald head, since he was a vain man. “Come, I make you tea. And there is wurst! Cheese and your foul kippers, too. Come, come.” He pumped Clare’s hand with abandon, grabbed Valentinelli’s and did the same. “You are small and thin. Italian, ja? No matter, you eat too. Baerbarth is not proud.”
The Neapolitan gave a wolfish grin. “Neither is Valentinelli, signor. Ciao.”
“Ja, ja, come. This way, this way—”
He led them between stacks of machinery, into a section of smaller metal carcasses. The light came from gaslamps and high dusty windows, weakly struggling to penetrate the corners, glinting off sharp edges.
Four easy chairs crouched in front of a coal grate; a massive pigeonhole desk loaded with papers and smaller cogwheels and gears hunched to one side. This portion of the old factory was better lit and warmer, and a hanging rack constructed of scrap metal above the desk held loops of wurst links and a gigantic wheel of cheese in a net bag. The kettle near the grate was hot, and in short order a second breakfast was prepared. Valentinelli and Baerbarth set to with a will, while Clare contented himself with terrible, harsh tea cut with almost turned milk.
“Now.” Sigmund’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Tell me, Herr Clare. What is problem?”
There was nothing for it but to leap in, however indirectly. “I need Prussian capacitors.”
Sigmund shrugged, chewing meditatively at a wurst as thick as his burly wrist. He was only a genius; his faculties were not quite mentath quality and he had failed the notoriously difficult Wurzburg Examinations twice. For
all that, he was generous, loyal, and honest to a fault. If not for the efforts of his landlady McAllister and his sometimes assistant Chompton – a thin, half-feral lad with a near-miraculous affinity for clockhorse gears – he would probably have been cheated out of every farthing long ago.
“Capacitors.” The great gleaming head nodded. “Prussians? Gone. Gentlemen bought mine month ago; none to be had, love or money. I could find you Davinports or some French ones, feh!” His face balled itself up to show his feelings on such a matter. To Sig, German mechanisterum was the apotheosis of the art, English was serviceable, and the French altogether too delicate and fancy to be considered proper mechanisterum at all. “But no, mein Herr, no Prussians. Not even my Becker haf them.”
Ah, so the trail is not as cold as I feared. “Now that is very odd.” Clare’s nose sank into his teacup. His habitual chair was a wide broken-in leather monstrosity, smelling slightly sharpish with rot like everything in the factory. Valentinelli’s head made a quick catlike movement, enquiring, as he perched on a wooden stool next to the grate – Chompton’s usual spot. “And where is young Chompers today?”
“He is picking river-shore, like good boy. Back before Tide, I tell him, but he grunt and wave his arms. Young men!” He rolled his weak, blinking eyes. “I find you Prussians, but it take time.”
“That’s quite all right. I have another question, my friend—”
“Of course. You would like wurst, eh? Or cheese? Bread is good, I just scrape mould off. More tea?”
“No thank you. Sig, old man, how would one trace a certain shipment of Prussian capacitors? Without drawing attention to oneself?”
The Bavarian grinned widely. One of his front teeth was discoloured; he had a positive horror of toothcharmers. “Aha! Now is revealed!”
No, but I would like you to think so. “Indeed. And?”
Sigmund sank back in his faded blue armchair, blowsy pink cabbage roses blooming horrifically over its surface like spreading fungus. It squeaked as he settled his squat frame more firmly. “Difficult. Very difficult.”
“But not impossible.” The tea was almost undrinkable, but at least it was strong. One could always do with a spot more to help a situation settle the proper way. “And if anyone can, Sig…”
“Archie. Is difficult, this thing you ask, ja?” Suddenly very grave, Sigmund took another mouthful of wurst and chewed. Like a cow, he thought best while ruminating.
A thin thread of unease touched Clare’s nape. He glanced at the stool by the grate.
Valentinelli had vanished.
Chapter Twenty-Two
They Are Not Exercised Enough
The dark green curricle was fast and light, especially with Mikal at the reins and the matched clockwork bays high-stepping. A trifle flashy, not quite the thing for a lady, but one had only to look at the witchballs spitting in their gilded cages, swinging from the swan-neck leaf springs, and the dash-charm sparking with crimson as it deflected mud and flung stones from the passenger, to know it was not just a lady but one of sorcery’s odd children being driven by a nonchalant Shield through a press of Londinium traffic rather startlingly resembling the seventh circle of Hell.
The curricle took a hard left, cutting through a sea of humanity. Shouts and curses rose. Emma paid no attention. Her eyes shut, she leaned back in her seat, fine invisible threads flashing one by one through her receptive consciousness as she held herself still. One gloved hand held tight to the loop of leather on her left, her fingers almost numb. Mikal shifted his weight, the clockhorses so matched their drumming hoofbeats sounded like one creature, Londinium’s chill fogday breath teasing at her veil. Even the strongest air-clearing charm could not make the great dozing beast of the city smell better than foul on days like this, when one of Dr Bell’s jars had descended over everything from St Paul’s Road to the Oval, and beyond. The night’s fog crouched well past daybreak, peering in windows, fingering pedestrians, cloaking whole streets with blank billowing hangings of thick yellow vapour. Some, especially the ditch-charmers and hedgerow conjurors, swore Londinium altered itself behind the fog. Outside the Black Wark, the Well, Whitchapel’s Sink or Mile End – or some other odd pockets – few believed them.
Still, those sorcery touched did not laugh at the notion. At least, not overloud, and certainly never overlong.
The avenues widened as they travelled north and west toward Regent’s Park. Traffic thinned through Marylbone, taking the great sweep of Portland Place past terraced Georgian houses standing proud-shouldered, sparkling with wards and charms. Precious few were sorcerer’s houses – no, the unsorcerous fashionable paid for defences, the flashier the better.
A sorcerer’s defences were generally likely to be less visible and more deadly.
Mikal made a short, sharp sound, shifting again, and the horses leapt forward. Pelting up the Place was certainly one way to make a statement, and she did not wonder why he had chosen this particular route. She was to be as ostentatious as possible today, so her quarry would focus on her as the larger threat – and hopefully not notice Clare’s poking about overmuch.
If they noticed too much, well, Valentinelli was the best protection she could provide, next to her own self. Ludovico might have made a fine Shield, if he’d been moulded earlier. He would have needed a light touch, though, and that was something very few sorcerers possessed.
Whoever rose to the bait of a mentath and an assassin would be interesting indeed. There was an art to preparing a hook without losing either hook or bait, and she intended to do so today.
The bay clockhorses, every inch of them gleaming now, ran like foam on crashing surf. Emma found the threads she wanted, her hands clenched before relaxing, fingers contorting and easing as she made the Gesture, and the Word shaped itself on her tongue.
“Ex–k’Ae–t!” As usual, the Word was soundless, filling her, thunder in stormclouds. The curricle jolted, sparks fountaining from clockhorse hooves, and the sudden eerie quiet as wheels and hooves bit nothing but air enfolded them.
Her eyelids fluttered, daylight spearing into her skull, the impression of Mikal standing, reins now loosely held as the clockhorses settled into a jogtrot. Emma’s own contorted fingers held finer, invisible threads, snapping and curling, fresh ones sliding into existence as the old tore.
The carriage flew.
Up they climbed, lather and sparks dripping, fog closing over Park Crescent below them, its green sickly under the pall. Still rising over Regent’s proper, the only sound the curricle’s wheels spinning freely and one of the clockhorses snorting, tossing its fine head. From the withers and haunches to the hooves, cogwheels meshed and slid, the pistons in the legs working in a simulacra of a flesh horse’s bones, its skeleton sorcerously reinforced and the russet metal melding seamlessly into bay hide lovingly tended by half-lame spine-curled Wilbur, the stable boy, who stammered so badly he could not make himself understood. The scar on his forehead perhaps showed why, but he had a charmed touch with clockhorses. Yet another indenture she was glad to have performed – her one-time kindness reaping a reward out of all proportion. Harthell, her usual coachman, was another – but she had no time to think on her collection of castaways.
For there, drifting as lightly as a soap bubble, the great Collegia stood on empty air. The lattices of support and transferral cradling the massive tiered white-stone edifice were clearly visible to Sight, but to the ordinary it seemed that the Collegia simply… floated. It drifted in a slow, majestic pattern above the Park, confined there to keep the Londinium rabble from rioting at the idea that it could fall on their slums and tenements – or vent its waste onto their heads.
Though they merrily shovelled excrement over each other, a sorcerer’s dung was another thing entirely. None saw fit to tell them the waste was shunted into the Themis, just like their own.
The horses high-stepped up an invisible grade, turned as Mikal flicked the reins, and the Gates were open. Sharp black stone dully polished and sculpted with flowing fan
tastical animal shapes, running with bloody-hued charter symbols, the Gates had been the first thing built for the Collegia. They had stood open since the first stone had been laid by Mordred the Black, who had claimed descent from Arthur’s left-hand line. Whether that was true, who could say?
The Lost Times were lost for a reason. Much as the records of the Age of Flame and the Age of Bronze were only fragmentary, or the records of the time during Cramwelle’s Inquisition. Britannia, her physical vessel murdered and the shock of that murder reverberating through the Isle, had surfaced finally in a fresh vessel and halted Cramwelle’s violent hatred of his sorcerous betters.
As the historial Lord Bewell had remarked, a little ambition could make even a hedge-charmer dangerous.
The most difficult part of entering the Collegia was landing on the slick marble paving. Even the cracking sound of transferring force away into empty air was to be avoided. Difficult, delicate, dexterous work; clockhorse hooves touched down soft as feathers, the curricle’s wheels given a preparatory spin to match speed, and the gradually rising volume of hooves and wheels until every step rang on the cold white stone was a small triumph. The silver rings on Emma’s left hand were warm, her attention rushed back firmly into her body and she cautiously opened her eyes.
The heavy veil took some sting from the foggy sunlight, much brighter here above the thicker soup of ground-level fog. Still, she squinted most unbecomingly before she half lidded her eyes languidly as a lady should. The curricle raced up the long circular drive; the massive fountain in the middle of the round garden played a sonorous greeting as multicoloured streams of light and prismatic water laved its surfaces. A half-nude Leda reclined under Jove in the form of a swan, blinding white; she chucked the snake-necked creature under its chin and for a moment the wings moved as her limbs did, dreamily. The light and water caressing them both made it far more indecent than the worst of the gentlemen’s flash press.