The Ripper Affair (Bannon and Clare) (2 page)

M
orning at 34½ Brooke Street thrummed with orderly activity. The kitchen bubbled with preparations for luncheon, tea, and the evening’s dinner; footmen hurried to and fro in preparation to accompany a maid or two a-marketing; a bath had been drained; and the mistress of the house, in a morning dress of amber silk, stood in her conservatory, her fingers infinitely gentle as she parted a tinkling climate-globe of golden ætheric force over a struggling hellebore.

The experiment was not going well, and Emma Bannon probed delicately at the plant with several nonphysical senses, seeking to find the trouble. She hummed softly, finding the proper series of notes, and winced internally at the dissonance in the plant’s response.

A slight cough near the door informed her that her lean,
yellow-eyed Shield was not finished with his own troubleseeking. He had already ruined breakfast by almost quarrelling with her.

Or, perhaps not quarrelling. Perhaps he really did believe her in need of coddling, or maybe he was truly anxious that his mistress was sinking too deeply into eccentricity. Primes were notorious for their oddities, which grew more pronounced over the course of a very long life. In some instances, the peculiarities turned deadly.

In any case, he chose exactly the wrong way to express said anxiety, phrased as a command. “Sooner or later you must face the world.”

If she were charitable, she would concede that it was not
quite
a command, and most probably intended as a statement of fact. Her skirts rustled–this morning dress, with relatively loose corseting and an unfashionably small bustle, had the advantage of being almost comfortable. “I will,” she replied, absently. “Not while
she
reigns, though. At the moment I am very busy with events occurring under my own roof.”

Mikal subsided, but not for long. “You are unhappy.”

Why on earth should that matter?
She untangled an ætheric knot, her concentration firming and the pleasure of sinking herself into a task almost enough to soothe her irritation. “I am
quite
content, except my Shield continues yammering while I am engaged upon an experiment. You were trained to act more appropriately, Mikal.”

She sensed the flare of unphysical heat from him, denoting his own irritation and further sensed a tightness in his limbs. Did he perhaps wish to strike her?

It was a novel idea. It would certainly save them both from boredom.

If he wishes to, that is all very well. As long as he does not attempt it in fact.

Boredom, too, could drive a Prime to experiment too rashly with certain facets of the irrational arts. She was not yet at the point of seeing certain necessary precautions as mind-numbingly time-wasting, but she was perhaps very close.

“Now, what are you about?” she murmured to the hellebore. The plant was carrying on gamely, but traceries of virulent yellow and twisting black ran up its stems, down the central spine of each drooping leaf. Leprous green sorcery sought ineffectually to contain it, but the yellow would not be halted. Even loosening the invisible knots did not help.

Bloody hell
. The ætheric tangle was growing worse, and strangling the life out of the hellebore’s tissues.
I wonder why it does that. Hmm
.

Unravelling the sorcerous threads required a light touch and considerable patience. The problem was a resonance; she caught herself worrying at her upper lip with her teeth.
A lady’s face should not make such a display
, Prima Grinaud would have said, and the thought of the wasp-waisted teacher and her whispering black, watered-silk skirts was enough to smooth Emma’s expression while she hummed a descant, seeking to find the vibration responsible.

Ah, there
. Her humming shifted. A tiny thread of ætheric
force spun down, the ring on her left index finger–a confection of marcasite and chrysoprase–glowing sullenly. Yellow veining retreated as the hellebore lifted its drooping leaves, the stems firming and the sudden
rightness
of a correct bit of sorcery sending a delightful thrill all the way down to Emma’s toes, encased in dainty button-up boots that also were unfashionable, but reasonably comfortable.

“Very satisfying.” She brushed her fingers quickly against her skirt, flicking away a tiny crackling of excess force. The climate-globe sealed itself, singing its soft muted bell-tone; the plant would survive. Not only that, it would downright thrive, and the manner of its cure gave her a fascinating new vista to experiment upon.

Clare would approve.
Chartersymbols flashed along the globe’s shimmer, naming its confines and its function; a spatter of rain touched the conservatory’s windows.

Mikal, tall in his usual olive velvet jacket, the knives worn openly at his hips and his dark hair freshly trimmed, stood to one side of the door. Perhaps inevitably, he was boiling with carefully reined irritation: a lemon-yellow tinge to Sight. “You have not left the house in months, Prima.”

Which was true enough, she supposed. At least he was not asking
why
. “I have seen no need to go gadding about. Should you wish to visit the Zoo or perhaps take a turn in Hidepark, you are more than welcome to.” She clasped her hands, tilted her head and felt the reassuring weight of her lapis earrings as they swung gently.

“The Palace sends you dispatches.”

She decided the familiar tone he currently employed could be borne only so far. “Which I return unopened, Shield.”
The Empire has not crumbled without my help to prop it up. I cannot tell whether to be pleased or vexed.
“And,” she continued, “no doubt you are relieved I am no longer in any possible danger, feeling no urge to step outside. It must be wondrous calming for a Shield when his charge behaves so.”

“I am… concerned.” The thundercloud knitting upon his brow might have cheered her own darkening mood, had she let it.

“Ah. I believe there is a remedy for your concern.” Her tone dripped with sweet solicitude. “You may leave the worrying to me, Mikal. Your head is simply not fit for it.”

“Your temper, Prima, is as sharp as your tongue.”

She took a firmer hold on said temper. “And you are speaking out of turn.”

“Emma.” His hands spread slightly, and she wished he would not look so… downcast, or so pained. His presumption she could easily parry.

His affection was another matter entirely. It took a long while to undermine a citadel with kindness, but it could be done.

She was saved the trouble of responding by a sharp, almost painful internal
twitch
.

The sorceress stilled, her attention turning inward, and her Shield’s sudden tense silence was a familiar comfort.
What on earth is that?

It had been a long while since she had felt that
particular
sensation; she flashed through and discarded several invisible threads before finding the one that sang like a viola’s string. Plucked by a long, bony finger… he had marvellously expressive hands for such a rigid logician, though Emma had never told him so.

Clare. In danger. But he has the…
The string yanked sharply again, a fishhook in her vitals, and Emma almost gasped, training clamping down upon her fleshly body’s responses to free a Prime’s will to work unhindered.

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
.”

M
oans 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.

I
t 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, the 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.”