The Iron Wyrm Affair

Chapter Forty-One Amenable to Control

“And this is the killer of that gigantic thing.” Victrix inclined her head. “We are grateful, Mr Valentinelli. You performed a great service to Britannia.”

The Neapolitan swept a painful, creaky bow. Both his eyes were swollen nearly shut, half his hair singed off, and his face was such a mass of cuts and welts it was difficult to see the pox scars. His clothes were in ribbons, and one of his boots was nothing more than a band of leather about his ankle and calf, the rest of it cut away and the stocking underneath filthy and draggled. “It is nothing, maestra. Valentinelli is at your service.”

Clare’s neck ached. The tension would not leave him. “Cecil Throckmorton. He was mad, Your Majesty, but he was also used.”

“Used by whom?” The Queen half turned, pacing away, and Clare forced his legs to work. He and Sigmund held each other like a pair of drunks.

The smaller gryphons took wing, their shadows pouring over the glass- and rubble-strewn floor. The sound was immense, a vault filled with brushing feathers. The dust was settling.

Clare suppressed a sigh. But this was important; he must make the Queen understand. “There were three parts to this conspiracy. Miss Bannon dealt with those who wished Britannia and the Isle erased from existence; she judged that the larger threat. One part of the conspiracy simply wished Britannia inconvenienced, however they could effect that – I would look to the Prussian ambassador, who will no doubt deny everything, since they were mercenaries and, by very dint of that, expendable. The third part of the conspiracy troubles me most, Your Majesty. It wished you, personally, Britannia’s current vessel, under control.”

“Control.” Victrix paused for a moment. Her shoulders came up, and she stalked for the high-backed Throne, the Stone of Scorn underneath its front northern leg shimmering soft silver as she approached. The Throne itself, undamaged, gleamed with precious stones.

It looked, Clare decided, dashed uncomfortable. But Victrix climbed the seven steps, turned sharply so her dust-laden skirts swirled, and sat. Sigmund might have gone up the steps as well, but Clare dug his heels in, and was strong enough to make him stop.

Victrix propped one elbow on the Throne’s northern arm, rested her chin upon her hand. The Guards searching through the rubble for wounded compatriots were hushed, muttering among themselves. Men moaned in pain or shock. The Queen closed her eyes, and Clare could have sworn he felt the entire Isle shiver once as Britannia, enthroned, turned Her attention inward.

“And do you think,” the Queen finally said, “that Britannia is amenable to control?”

“Not Britannia,” he corrected, a trifle pedantic. “Victrix, Your Majesty. Wounded, frightened, faced with three conspiracies working in tandem? Your Majesty might well rely on … improper advice.” Then he shut his mouth, almost … yes, almost afraid he had said too much.

“Well said, sir.” Britannia sighed, Her chin sinking on to Her hand as if it weighed far more than it should. “Yet, as long as We possess subjects of such courage and loyalty as yourself, We shall not worry overmuch.”

“Miss Bannon deserves the credit, Your Majesty.” He sounded stiff even to himself, but it was merely the agony of exhaustion weighing him down. Staying upright and speaking consumed a great deal of his attention.

A ghost of amusement passed over Britannia’s closed, somnolent face. “No doubt she would lay it at your door.”

“She is too kind.”

“Not at all, mentath. We think it best you leave now. Our Consort approaches, and We wish a private word with him.”

Clare thought of protesting. Valentinelli gripped his free arm, though, and it occurred to him that discretion was perhaps wiser than anything he might say, however well founded the chain of logic that led to his suspicions. “Yes, mum. I mean, Your Majesty. By your leave.” Oh, what is the proper etiquette for taking leave of one’s sovereign in these circumstances?

“Mentath. Mr Clare.” Britannia’s eyes half opened, and the aged face rising underneath Victrix’s young countenance sent a most illogical shiver down Clare’s spine. Her eyes were indigo from lid to lid, small sparks like stars floating over depths he found he did not wish to examine too closely. What would it be like to clasp such a being in one’s arms?

No, he did not envy the Consort. Not at all. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Make certain Miss Bannon may find you and your companions. We shall wish to reward you, when We have sorted this unpleasantness through.” Her eyelids fell again, and Clare heard the drumming of approaching feet, shouts, and crunching of glass.

What did one say in this exotic situation? “Yes. Er, thank you, Your Majesty.”

Sig tugged him in one direction, Valentinelli in another. They finally decided on a course, Clare’s head hanging so low he did not see anything but his own filthy boots dragged over rubble and dust. When he passed into a soup of half-consciousness, it was welcome, his overstrained faculties deciding they required a retreat from recent events. He heartily agreed.

The last thing he heard was Sig’s muttering, and Valentinelli’s non-committal grunts in reply.

“Just one,” the Bavarian kept repeating. “You hear me, Italiensch? One mecha. We drag it to workshop. I feed you wurst. You help me.”