Aberline finally left off hammering at the door. He whirled, and fixed Mikal with a baleful glare. “You. Where is she? Why, I’ve a mind to—”
“Cease your chatter,” Mikal returned, amiably enough. “Or I shall make you.”
Clare puffed again, thoughtfully. Quite a riddle the lady had posed. Quite.
Aberline clearly thought better of provoking the Shield any further; he cast about for a new target. “Where’s that knife-throwing son of a whore? Finch!”
“Do be quiet,” Clare remarked. “And do leave Mr Finch be. In any case, he will not answer your summons. There is only one being who commands that man, and she is not at home.” He puffed again. “When you have calmed, sir, we shall proceed.”
“Proceed? We are sitting here while… what on earth can she be doing? What could have possessed the bit—”
It was, strangely enough, Pico who interrupted. “Watch your tongue, guv.” He actually bounced to his feet as well, and his hands were fists. “I’ve had about enough of your high’n mighty.”
Clare sighed. “This solves nothing.”
Whatever Aberline might have replied was lost in a soughing sound.
Clare tilted his head, and the massive clock at the end of the entry hall spoke. In the midst of its chiming, a subtle pressure drained away, and Clare gained his feet with another weary sigh.
Midnight, precisely, and the crackle of live sorcery could only mean one thing. “I believe the door will open now,” he observed. “And our murderer will strike again tonight. I further believe Miss Bannon rather desperately requires our aid.”
Mikal nodded. “Yes.” The word was chilling in its flatness. “The house is no longer sealed. I am no longer Confined. Yet I cannot sense my Prima.”
“Bother.” Archibald jammed his hat firmly onto his head. “I had hoped you could find her in some sorcerous manner.”
The Shield looked positively sick under his dark colouring. “If she is… alive, I could. But I cannot sense her.”
Clare stared for a moment. Aberline’s mouth hung open, and the inspector blinked several times. Mercifully, he remained silent.
“She could have set the house and my Confinement to release at this moment,” Mikal continued. “Or… not. It would release if she…”
Clare cleared his throat. Down, Feeling! Logic. Logic must serve here.
But… Emma. She had been so pale, and taking only water. So certain she would have no trouble finding the next victim.
She betrayed a certain familiarity with Whitchapel. The listening look she wore, when inside its environs. Her origins, however obscure, were no doubt of a sort to make her familiar with Want, Vice, Crime, and other unsavouries. She was also connected to Victrix, and hence Britannia, in numerous ways. Not to mention her rather incredible ability to find a treasonous criminal once she set herself seriously about it.
It would make quite a bit of sense for this lunatic sorcerer to see her too great a threat to continue breathing.
It would further make quite a bit of sense for Miss Bannon to wave herself before such a man in the manner of a rag waved before a bull to engage its fury.
She had such a distressing habit of disregarding her personal safety.
Emma. For God’s sake. Do not… do not be…
He forced himself to think upon it, the cold tearing in his vitals savagely repressed. “She is not dead,” he said, finally, conscious of the lie. He told himself it was necessary, that the Shield would be of more use if he held to faint hope. “She is most likely incapacitated in some manner. Pico, my pistol.” He accepted the weapon with a nod. “Now, gentlemen, I trust everyone here sees the course we must take.”
“I am afraid I most certainly do not see—” Aberline began.
Clare fixed him with a steady gaze. “Your knowledge of the worst sinks in Whitchapel, where I have deduced this monster is no doubt hiding, is very valuable. We may even, should we be forced to, find a poppy den and hope your small talent at sorcery will help. I am quite prepared to be ungentlemanly about this, sir, and furthermore, Mr Mikal will take it badly should you give anything less than your full effort to finding our sorceress.”
Aberline had gone the colour of milk. He glanced at Mikal, opened his mouth, shut it, and nodded. There was a fire in the back of his dark gaze that promised much trouble later.
At the moment, Clare did not care one whit.
Emma. He had to examine his pistol, critically, as if assuring himself of its readiness.
Bulldog. Made by Webley, very fine. Gift from Emma, to replace the pepperbox. Fully loaded. His faculties replayed the loading procedure, but just to be certain, he checked the chambers. Five shots, .450 Addams cartridges, and there were more in his pockets, should he need them. For emergencies, the sorceress had said with a smile, presenting him with the walnut box.
He swallowed, very hard, and slid the weapon into its holster. A moment’s work had it buckled to his belt, and the familiar weight was not nearly soothing enough.
Archibald Clare drew himself up to his full, if somewhat lean, height. “Pico, lad, go and tell your uncle we shall be taking the carriage, if Miss Bannon left it for us. On the shelf in my workroom you will find a decent purse for just such occasions as this. Mr Aberline, come with me; you shall be clothed properly for our descent. Mr Mikal—”
“I know my part,” the Shield replied, and turned on his heel.
“If you feel any inkling of Miss Bannon’s, er, location—”
“You shall know. And if not… vengeance.” He disappeared to the far side of the stairs, no doubt heading for the stable to rouse the coachman. “Hurry.”
“Never fear,” Aberline commented sourly. “The sooner this is finished, the better.”
“I hope she’s alive, Inspector.” Clare paused. “For your sake.”
The man actually bristled. “Do you mean you—”
“No, you need not worry about me. You do, however, need to worry about Mikal. Come, let us find you more suitable cloth.”
“Stop!” Aberline cried, and almost threw himself from the carriage. He would have landed ignominiously face-first on cobbles if not for Pico’s lightning-quick reflex to grab at his jacket; Harthell cursed roundly as he pulled the vehicle to a juddering halt. The clockhorses, unhappy at being roused at this hour and further unhappy at such treatment, let their displeasure be known.
“Canning!” Aberline hailed what Clare, blinking, perceived to be a hurrying shape on the pavement. “I say, man, halt!”
“What the devil–oh, it’s you.” The voice had an odd lilt, possibly Eirean. “Where have you been? Don’t you know?”
“Obviously I do not, sir.” Aberline motioned the man closer. “What news?”
Clare squinted, and made out what had to be a fellow inspector. The man’s hat plainly shouted he was of the Yard, and his serviceable shoes held steaming traces of Scab’s kiss. He was bandy-legged and thick-necked, and when he stepped under a sputtering gaslamp, Clare could see bright blue eyes and a reddened nose. Fog-moisture clung to his jacket and hat, and the steaming from his shoes added vapour to the choking mist.
How very odd. He had not, in his small experience of the organic sludge coating Whitchapel’s floor, seen it behave in just this way.
“Another murder. The worst yet. Dorsitt Street. And the Scab… well.”
“The Scab? What of it?”
“It hasn’t come out. And where it has, it behaves oddly.”
“As if it ever behaves in a different manner.” Yet Aberline looked troubled, and he did not pursue this fascinating tidbit. Instead, he turned the conversation in quite another direction. “Where are you bound?”
“I’m to the Yard to report to Waring. There was some chalk on a door–something about the Yudics. He ordered it rubbed out, but too late. The entire Eastron End is up in arms again. There’s a Yudic church burning, mobs looking for Leather Apron all the way to the Leae. Even Soreditch is restless.”
“The murder in Do
rsitt?” Aberline prompted, as the horses stamped and champed.
“It’s dire, Aberline. It’s inside a doss, for once, but that meant he had time to do his work. A real artist, our ripping lad.”
“How bad is it?”
A bitter laugh greeted this query. “I’d say, don’t dine before you view it, sir. Everyone’s been at six and seven trying to find you, sir. Shall I tell Waring you’ve been sighted?” His tone plainly said that he expected a refusal of this generous offer.
Surprisingly, though, Aberline nodded. “Do, there’s a good fellow. Tell him I am at the scene already. Dorsitt Street, you say?”
“Aye, between the Bluecoat and the Britannia. The ginhouses are near to empty serving the thirst of every blighter in the Eastron End come to view the scene, and it will only get worse. I’d use a whip for the crowds, if I were you.” A half-bitter sound of amusement, and Canning touched his hat. “I’ll be off then. I’ll tell Waring you were already there. Fine carriage, by the by.”
“Do you think so? Many thanks, sir, and regards to the missus.”
“You should perhaps think on your own, there’s a letter on your desk from her.”
Aberline winced visibly. “I see. Good evening, Canning.”
“Good evening. You’ll need one.” The man took himself off at a trot again.
“Dorsitt Street, as fast as you may,” Aberline called to Harthell, whose reply was a snort saying that he had heard, thank you, and mind to shut the door.
Clare eyed Mikal, who had not moved during the entire exchange. The man’s eyes were downright unsettling, catching some flash of random illumination and glowing gold. His hands had been loose and easy on his knees, but they had slowly tightened over the duration of the conversation. Aberline settled back next to Clare as Pico shifted a trifle uncomfortably.
I would be uncomfortable too, next to that stillness. Clare cleared his throat. “That does not sound encouraging.”
Aberline made as if to wring his hands, thought better of it, and sighed deeply. “I have never heard Canning refer to a crime in quite such terms before. No doubt our mad sorcerer has surpassed himself.”
The whip cracked and the carriage jolted forward. Clare still examined Mikal closely. The Shield’s gaze had fixed on a point over Aberline’s head, and the only thing more disconcerting was the slow unclenching of his fists.
“You did not ask for particulars,” Clare noted, finally. A description of the victim might aid us at this moment.
Or are you afraid?
“I did not think it wise.” Aberline dusted an imaginary speck from his borrowed trousers; the carriage jolted them all most rudely. “We shall see what Leather Apron and his creature have left us soon enough.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
You Will Give Me The World
A chanting, low and sonorous, a faint brushing against her skin as ætheric force crawled over her. She lay perfectly still, returning to consciousness much as a trickle might fill a teacup.
She was not in her bed.
How odd. I cannot move. Sorcerous and physical constraints, certainly, and a Prime’s displeasure at being held so would no doubt begin to fray her temper before long. The said fraying would loosen her control in short order, and she would quickly become a frantic struggling thing, robbed of much of her mental acuity.
Unless she resisted.
Do as Clare does. Observe. Deduce. Analyse. I am only temporarily helpless.
It did not help quite as much as she might have wished. She slowly raised her eyelids, training twisting its sharp hold deeper into her physical frame as her pulse struggled to quicken and her breathing sought to become shallow sips. None of that now. Look about you.
Her eyelids were not paralysed, though she could not turn her head. At first there was only an umber glow, but as she blinked, testing the confines of the restraints for any weakness in a purely reflexive unphysical movement, shapes became visible.
There was movement, and the chanting came to a natural end, dying away.
A slight hiss. The movement became a gleam on a knife blade, and Emma studied the tableau before her.
A black-clad back, one shoulder hitched high with a heavy hump upon it, claw-like gloved fingers. He stood before a large, squared chunk of obsidian, the lighting from wicks floating in cuplike oil-lamps instead of proper witch- or gaslight.
The wall she could see was of rough stone, the masonry old enough to be the work of the Pax Latium. The sounds were odd–what reached her through the distortion of shimmering sorcerous restraints echoed as if they were underground. Of course, Londinium’s first burning and rebuilding had been courtesy of the Latiums. Even Britannia had not resisted them completely, or forever.
The shape before the obsidian stone–it looked much like an altar, she realised–turned with a queer lurching motion.
At first she feared the sorcerous restraints were affecting her vision, or the foul substance he had used upon the rag had lingering aftereffects. But no. Everything else was in its proper, if shabby and worn, dimensions.
She watched his painful movements. Above the black altar–light fell into the stone and died, no reflection marred its surface–was a shifting, smoky substance hanging, moving in time to a slow beat very much like a sleeping pulse. She studied it more closely, and caught flashes.
Coal-bright eyes, extra-jointed fingers. Dead-pale flesh peeking through shabby coat and worn, knitted gloves. Neatly coiled atop the obsidian was the whip, the sharp barbs at the end of its long fluid flow pulsing as well with sickly blue-white flashes. The knife, slightly curved by much whetting, stood, quivering upright, balanced on its point. Occasionally, the smokelike suggestion reached down to stroke the rough, leather-wrapped handle, and a bloody flush would slide down the gleaming blade.
Ah. I see. It was a marvellous thing, to bring a spirit from nothing in this manner. All it took was the will to do so, and enough ætheric and emotional force. The trouble was, most such spirits tended to be malformed things, working only in a very limited way, as a golem or a Huntington’s Chaser or even a necros vocalis.
Sorcery’s children were cautioned to never let such a spirit grow too strong, for the trembling border between slave to a sorcerer’s will and sentience could be breached after enough time and force had become the creature’s ally.
And then… well. Better to create a new slave than have one grow too powerful and turn against its Maker.
Yes, she decided. Quite interesting. It was most certainly a Promethean. Difficult to create, a thousand things could go awry during the process. Also, it approached sentience very quickly. Why had she not thought of this possibility?
Because a sorcerer would have to be mad to attempt such a thing. It had to be fed, frequently. When those of Disciplines blacker than the Diabolic, malformed but drawing breath just the same, had achieved the status of gods among some benighted primitive clans, the accepted food for such constructs was the most tender and innocent of all, plucked from grieving mothers’ breasts. Without such regular nourishment, the spirit would turn on its creator and roam free, gathering strength from casual, wanton murder. The æther around it would tangle and grow clotted, and it would eventually collapse under the weight of that curdling. Some whispered that the sorcerer queen of Karthago had created such a spirit to wage her desperate war against the Pax Latium, and that the blight surrounding that fabled lost city was a result of her death before she could bring it to a second, monstrous birth.
For there was one thing that set a Promethean apart from other created spirits. It could, if certain conditions were met, merge with its creator, and become something… other. Emma strained her well-trained memory, for once ignoring her own pulse as it quickened. She had, of course, under careful Collegia tutelage, studied several pages of books those of Disciplines other than the Black could not open. Her own Discipline, deeply of the Black, twitched slightly inside her as it recognised something akin to it.
That is why, when I disturbed its
feeding-site, it became attuned to me. How very interesting.
“She’s awake.” There was a harsh, grating laugh, and the hunched figure straightened, stretching. Creaks and crackling, bulging and rippling, and parchment-pale hair fell to his shoulders. A terrible raddled face slowly came forward into a circle of smoking lamplight, and she recognised him afresh. “And so prettily, too.”
She knew him. How could she not? The questions that had nagged at her for so long now had an opportunity to be answered.
Broad shoulders, one hitched much higher than the other. The black-clad chest bulged obscenely on one side, the cloth cut away to show a latticework of Alteration: arched ribs of scrolled, delicate iron and the dull reddish glow of a stone, curved on one side and flat on the other.
She recognised that as well.
For before she had wrenched it free of her flesh and married it to Archibald Clare’s, she had borne one just like it. A Philosopher’s Stone, made from a wyrm’s heart. Wyrms were held outside of Time’s river by their very nature, and a youngling’s heart was powerful proof against most ills.
So he had possessed two after all.
Llewellyn Gwynnfud, Lord Sellwyth, returned from the dead, creaked as he bent over her.
Now she could see the thin, fleshy filaments spinning out from the ruins of shattered ribs, the wet gleam of organs rebuilding themselves under a carapace of Alterative sorcery. His gloved fingers reached down, most of them broken stubs coming to small points as they regrew, and he reached through the blurring of sorcerous restraints to touch Emma’s hair. It was an oddly gentle caress.
Had he ever bothered to remain so tender, he might have had Emma’s loyalty, instead of a young queen who would eventually insult her past bearing.
She sought to speak. Nothing came out–of course, she was gagged and silenced. A trickle of saliva slid from the corner of her cruelly bound mouth, pooling under her cheek. She could feel splintered wood underneath her, a hard surface holding her up from the floor. From the wet sound he made when he moved, she supposed she should be grateful.