The Ripper Affair (Bannon and Clare)

  She returned to herself with a rush, the walls of her house vibrating soundlessly. Her indentured servants, well accustomed to such a sensation, would be calmly pursuing their duties.

  Mikal leaned forward, his weight braced, ready to move in any direction. “Prima?” Carefully, quietly–no matter how he might test her temper, it was best not to do so when there was sorcery to accomplish.

  She supposed it was a small mercy that he was, at least, willing to cease his questioning when an emergency threatened.

  “It is Clare,” she heard herself say, distantly. “To the stables, saddle two horses. Now.”

  Chapter Three

  Stillness Descending

  Moans and cries, an acrid reek, blood crusting or fresh, the throat-coating nastiness of scorched stone. There was no ventilation, and the crush of the crowd had only worsened.

  “Move back!” Clare coughed violently, a painful retch bringing up a dry thick gobbet of something he spat to the side with little ado. “He cannot breathe, give him space!” The Bocannon was a cicatrice of frost upon his chest; his shirt and jacket were in tatters. His bare knees grated against shards of smoking wood, and somewhere a woman screamed, high-pitched repeating cries piercing Clare’s aching skull. “And for God’s sake clear the doors!”

  “Bastarde,” the wreck of a body in his arms muttered. “Cold.”

  “All will be well,” Clare lied numbly. “Ludo—”

  Whistles sounded, shrill and useless. Help had arrived outside, perhaps, but the shouts and curses amid the struggling mass at the door sought to bring a deduction to surface amid the porridge his brain had become.

  Ludovico… The struggle to think clearly stung his eyes, or was it the thick smoke? Blood, hot and slippery over his hands, and the foul stench of a battlefield. He knew what it meant, knew he should gaze dispassionately at the shredded flesh and shattered bone he clasped, so heavy.

  So, so heavy.

  Deadweight.

  Do not think such things. “All will be well,” he repeated. “Help is coming.”

  Half the assassin’s face was a scorched ruin. Well, he had never been pretty, even on the best of days.

  Why had he thrown himself upon the dynamitard?

  He thought to do his duty. As always. Quite remarkable sense of honour, for an assassin.

  The body in his arms stiffened. Ludo’s dark eyes dimmed, blood bubbling at the corners of his shredded mouth. There were spots of soot on his pitted cheeks, and dewdrops.

  Do not be an idiot. There is no dew. His eyes were burning, blurring. It had to be the smoke.

  The crowd screamed and surged for the doors again. Ludo’s lips moved, but Clare could not hear through the din. Trampling and thrashing, the courtroom had become a seething creature with its own panicked mind. The pressure against the inward-opening doors would preclude those outside from offering aid.

  Nevertheless, a great stillness descended. Clare stared down, into the face he knew as well as his own, horribly battered now. A shudder heaved through the floor–no, the body he held? Or was it his own frame, stiffening against the onrush of irrational emotion?

  The Bocannon gleamed, clearly visible now that Clare’s shirt and jacket were in tatters. Ludo’s gaze fastened on that spark, and his lips moved again. The pendant gave a last flare of fiery ice, and Clare’s nerves were alight all through his skin.

  His whole, unbroken skin. He had survived, fantastically, unbelievably, suffering only rent clothing and the stinging of smoke. “Ludo—”

  “Stregaaaaa…” the Neapolitan sighed, and Clare bent forward over him, unheeding the illogicality of his own broken sobs.

  No. No, no no—

  No protest would avail; no exercise of deduction would halt this. The mentath closed his eyes.

  He did not wish to see.

  There was a sound. Low and vicious as a blade cleaving wet air. The noise of the crowd was pulled away, a curtain swept aside by an invisible hand. The Bocannon gave out a high tinkling rill of notes, and a breath of sweeter scent cut through the reek.

  Clare could not look. He crouched over the body, even heavier now that its occupant had fled. The quiet was immense, crushing, the blackness between stars, and when they found him he was no longer weeping.

  Chapter Four

  Some Order Here

  It was, as a Colonial might say, a bloody horrific hell of a mess.

  By the time Emma half fell out of the bay clockhorse’s saddle–her morning dress was never going to be the same–into Mikal’s hands, the narrow street leading to the Clerkewold was jammed with a milling crowd, straining carriages and a great deal of nasty smoke, as well as policemen blowing their damnable silverwhistles and clacking blocks together instead of doing anything useful.

  In short, it was a situation only a sorceress could remedy, and Emma Bannon stalked forward. The tugging of the Bocannon had crested and subsided, and why it should lead her here she had no idea, except that Clare was somewhere in this disorder and needed her aid. She had not seen him for a week or two, but that was normal, when he had an affair engaging his attention.

  The fog was not bad this afternoon, pale yellow and merely unpleasant instead of choking. Still, Londinium’s great bowl seethed differently, as if potent yeast had been added during her absence. Or perhaps it was merely that she had lost the habit of familiarity with crowded, odiferous streets and high-pitched cries.

  First, a bit of quiet. A half-measure of chant slid from her lips, spiked with ætheric force, every inch of jewellery on her flaming as she drew upon its accumulated charge. The screaming, both human and equine, cut off sharply. It was a moment’s worth of work to clear a path to the Clerkewold’s set of high narrow double doors, but three of the four were fastened shut and the stream of people fleeing whatever disaster had taken place had dammed itself to a mere trickle.

  Emma paused, the crowd exploding away as it realised one of sorcery’s children was present and quite likely irritated. Mikal was at her shoulder, having no doubt attended to the clockhorses in some fashion; she set her heels, her hands coming forward, fingers curled around empty air.

  She pulled, a second rill of notes issuing from her throat, and expended a little more sorcerous force than she strictly had to. The doors exploded outwards, shards of wood whickering as they sliced the air, and smoking bits peppered the crowd.

  A torrent of persons issued forth, stumbling down the stairs, their cries shrill and tinny as they met the blanket of silence Emma had laid over the street. She unknotted a single strand of the first spell with a discordant note; it would unravel on its own and slowly return clamour to this part of Londinium.

  She picked up her skirts, suddenly acutely aware of being outside her domicile with nothing even approximating gloves, a shawl, or a hat. Her hair was likely disarranged from the ride here as well, and familiar irritation at being dishevelled rose inside her.

  At least the escapees, singed and shrouded in foul smoke–had Clare been conducting experiments in a courtroom?–had the wit to give her space as she climbed the worn stone steps; dividing around her much as a river embraces a stone.

  The Bocannon’s tugging was faint now; whatever had occurred was now largely finished. Its bearer was still alive; beyond that, she could sense nothing.

  He has Ludo to guard him. And he has… it. The Stone.

  She discarded the thought as useless. Besides, why would she wish to be reminded of that nasty affair? It had cost them all dearly.

  The vapour was foul, and there was a sick-sweet odour of roasting. What manner of disaster had he embroiled himself in now? She should have paid closer attention to the affairs he was engaging himself upon.

  It was no use to scold herself now.

  Mikal’s hand touched her shoulder. He pointed, and there was another set of doors, old wood rubbed with so much oil it had turned black. The walls teemed with the rose of Henry the Wifekiller’s family crest, worked over and over again, an explosion of arrogance. Of course, th
e man had been an apotheosis of pride, almost rivalling a Prime’s traditionally large self-regard. It was a very good thing a reigning spirit would not deign to inhabit a vessel with sorcerous talent. A double measure of such overweening vanity might well leave whatever Empire it graced a smoking ruin.

  It was another moment’s work to shatter the blackened wood, widening the aperture through which more smoke-maddened human beasts poured. She was spending force recklessly, and found she did not care one whit.

  Where is he?

  Some manner of legal proceeding had been in session; paper fluttered, blackened and torn. The stink of a battlefield roiled out with the smoke, but she could spare no attention for an air-cleansing charm.

  Because there, amid the shattered bodies, knelt Archibald Clare, a lean man past his youth whose sandy, greying hair was flame-crisped at the ends. His shirt and jacket had been blown away, ribbons hanging from the cuffs, and his trousers were just short of indecent.

  He hunched over a horribly burnt and battered form.

  Emma, who had seen many a death in her day from illness or… other events, halted. The sorcery she had been gathering to restore some order and breathable air to the room died unformed, her rings sparking and sizzling, the bronze torc at her throat warming dangerously as ætheric strings snarled, tangling against each other just as the fleeing crowd had.

  No. Oh, no.

  There was nothing to be done for the shattered body; no spark of life left to seal into the violated flesh. Even had she been a Mender, there was no help for Ludovico Valentinelli now, and Emma let out a shaking breath.

  “Clare?” She sounded very young, even to herself. Firmed her expression and strode briskly through the wreckage. In the remnants of the judge’s bench another well-built man torn by the force of some ungodly explosion–though there was no trace of fiery sorcery lingering in the room, merely the quivering shreds of truthtelling and inkwell charms unravelling as their physical bases lay broken–bubbled and croaked, probably close to dying. She paid him little mind. “Archibald. Dear God.”

  He did not move. Muscle under the flour-pale skin of his narrow back did not flicker, and for a moment something black lodged in her throat. Was he… despite the Stone’s gift, was he…?

  “I hear his heartbeat,” Mikal murmured. “But not… the other’s.”

  Ludovico. It was unquestionably the assassin she had blood-bound to Clare, the most intelligent and reliable of his ilk she had ever come across during her erstwhile service to the Crown. One of his hands was whole and uninjured, slack against the stone pavers lining the floor. His fingernails, of course, were filthy, and for some reason that detail caused a great calm to descend upon her.

  Who did this?

  For the moment, it did not matter. First things must be tidied, Clare must be made safe, and… Ludo. There were arrangements to be made for his eternal rest. She owed him as much, at least.

  Then, she told Clare silently, I shall visit vengeance upon whoever did this.

  Mikal’s hand had tensed, fingers digging painfully into her shoulder. Did he think she would buckle? Swoon, like some idiot woman? Or was he relieved at the fact that it was the assassin who lay dead, and not the mentath? Who knew?

  “Turn loose of me,” she managed, and her tone was ice. The words echoed in the suddenly empty room, and the wreckage quivered. She rearranged the ætheric strings that had become tangle-frayed, and the air-cleansing charm crackled as she set it free. “Help Clare. And for God’s sake let us have some order here.”

  Chapter Five

  Quite Possibly Your Regard

  There was a sense of motion, and jolting.

  A carriage? For a moment the protective blankness his faculties were swathed in threatened to thin–or worse, shatter completely.

  So he withdrew, and for a long while there was nothing, until he heard her voice again. Cultured and soft, and yet brisk as ever. “Yes, there… Carry him to his room. Mr Finch, there are arrangements to be made. Alice, please tell Madame Noyon I require her–I shall be wearing mourning. Horace, fetch wax and parlieu, I shall be sealing a room. Mikal–oh, yes, thank you. Quite.”

  More motion, outside the cotton-muffling. Sadly, his flesh would not allow him to retreat much longer. Certain pressures were building, not the least the urge to avail himself of a commode or its equivalent. Even a stinking alley would do.

  Memory rose–Valentinelli, his eyes a-glimmer in the dark of a filthy dockside lane, amused at Clare’s distaste for such quarters. When you are done pissing, mentale, there is work to be done.

  The choking sensation must have been leftover smoke. For a moment his brain shivered inside its hard bone casing and the edifice of Logic a mentath built to house the constant influx of perception and deduction threatened to crumble. If it failed him, he would be lost–his fine faculties a useless mix of porridge and ash, the irrelevance every mentath feared even more than the loss of mental acuity descending upon him.

  Mentaths did not go mad, but they could retreat into phantasies of logic, building a rational inward castle that bore no relevance to the outside world at all. A comfortable room in some asylum would be the rotting end of such an event. He would no doubt have every manner of care–she would do no less–but still, it was a fate to be feared.

  Softness about his frame, and familiar smells. Leather, dust scorched away by cleansing-charms; linen and paper, and a breath of Londinium’s acrid yellow fog. His body was demanding to be heard. He turned away, into the blackness. It was his friend, that mothering dark, and something in him shivered once more.

  Impossible. It is impossible, irrational, miraculous—

  On that road, however, lay something very close to madness.

  “Archibald?” Quite unwontedly tender, now. Miss Bannon sounded weary, and breathless. “If you can hear me… I am attending to matters. You are quite safe. I…”

  Tell me it is a dream. A nightmare.

  But mentaths did not dream. There was no room for it in their capacious skulls. Or if they did, such a thing was not remembered. It seemed a small price to pay for a rational, orderly world that performed as expected.

  You suspect the world is not rational at all, Clare. Therein lies your greatest fear.

  A rustle of silk, a breath of spiced pear. She had worn this particular perfume for quite some time now, and it suited her well. The smoky indefinable odour of sorcery, adding complexity. Another scent, too–the mix of flesh and breath that was a living woman.

  Living. As he was.

  Everyone about me was injured fatally. Perhaps I am grievously hurt and I cannot tell? Shock?

  Yet he could feel his fingers and toes, the flesh he was doing his best to ignore. There were cases of those who had lost a limb reporting phantom pain; were there also other sensations? A ghost-limb… perhaps the nerves, enduring a shock, struggled to re-create the lost wholeness?

  The horrible bubbling of Valentinelli’s tortured body struggling against the inevitable refused to recede into memory. Paired with the utter gruesome silence of death, the two set up an echo that threatened to tear him asunder.

  “I am attending to everything,” she finally repeated. Had she paused, or had he simply lost track of Time, that great semi-fluid that could stretch at will? No matter how a clock sought to cage it, that flow did as it pleased.

  “Mum?” A discreet cough, and printed on the back of Clare’s eyelids came the cavernous face of Mr Finch, the indentured butler’s balding pate reflecting mellow light from the sorcerous globe depending from the ceiling. He could tell from the slight lift at the end of the word that Finch considered the situation rather uncomfortable but certainly not dire. “Carriage, from Windsor. Requesting the honour of your presence.”

  A short, crackling silence. There was a soft touch to the back of Clare’s hand–he shut it away, Feeling warring with Logic again. If he allowed any quarter in that battle, he would be defeated into sludge-brained uselessness in short order.

  Her reply
, measured and thoughtful. “Give the coachman a dram and send him on his way. Say that I am indisposed.”

  “Yesmum?” It was all the question Finch would allow himself.

  “Thank you, Finch.” In other words, she was quite sure she did not wish to be transported to Windsor. Inferences began to tick under the surface of Clare’s faculties, but he did not dare give them free rein. “Archibald, if you can hear me… simply rest. You are safe.”

  A whisper of silk, the sound of bustling, and no doubt one of the footmen would be sent to sit with him and make certain of his continued breathing. Murmurs and hurrying feet, and Clare finally let himself face the unavoidable conclusion.

  Miss Bannon performed some miracle long ago, while I was ill with the Red and expected to die. She has not spoken of it since, and neither have I. But now…

  Now I rather think we must.

  As a means of wrenching his attention from the memory of blood and dying, it was not enough. The tide of Feeling arose again, and this time he could not contain it. His body locked against itself, and a scream was caught in his stone-blocked throat.

  Nobody heard. For he did not let it loose.

  He woke to dim light, and for a long while stared at the ceiling. Dark wood, familiar stains and carven scroll-work. He heard the breath moving, in, and out. In, and out, the sough of respiration less than a cricket’s whisper. Just one pair of lungs, small and dainty as the rest of her.

  Her Shield was not standing inside his door, which was not normal but by no means completely unusual. It could mean she was cautious, or disposed to privacy.

  Whatever she wished to say, she wanted no witnesses. It suited him as well.

  Start with a bare fact. “I was untouched,” Archibald Clare heard himself state, dully. The ceiling did not move, and he did not look away from its curves and hollows. “I should have died.”