The Red Plague Affair

Chapter Eight Only If You Do Not Displease

The Rostrand was not an old hotel, but it was fit for visiting royalty. Very few of Englene’s natives would stay in its luxurious wallow; it was far too Continental. The walls were sheathed with kielstone, which meant the native flow of æther would not overly discommode foreign guests with any sorcerous talent. And, not so incidentally, so their own alienness would not create stray harmful bits of irrationality.

Rudyard was not a foreigner, precisely. He had been born in the glare and monsoon of the Indus. Which was practically Empire, true… but it still made certain of his talents unreliable when he ventured beyond the subcontinent’s borders.

How that must irk him.

It was no great trick to locate him in the coffee room off the cavernous overdone lobby with its glittering chandelier overhead sparking and hissing with repression charms. Mirrors in gilded frames reflected fashionable plumed hats atop women’s curls, the height of Parissian fashion favouring dark rich jewel-colours this year, and men in sober black, a faint look of ill-ease marking every foreigner no matter how expensively dressed. The gaslamps were lit, their light softening each edge and picking out nuances of colour sunlight would bleach. The morning’s glamour had not made her overly sensitive, but she still blinked rapidly. Even the rainy light outside was too much, sometimes.

The French were much in evidence today, and Emma’s trained glance stored faces while her obedient memory returned names for some of them. Some of the guests here bore watching – the Monacan Ambassador, for one, oiled and sleek and quite fashionable to have in a drawing room lately. His tiny principality did not rate him such importance, and there were certain troubling rumours about his proclivities, both personal and professional, that would require attention sooner or later.

The coffee room was sun-bright and pleasant, done in a rather Eastern style. Sky-blue cushions with gilt tassels, a splendid hookah in a nook by a chimney – most likely defunct, a relic of some travel through a pawnshop – and cages of well-bred canaries cringing under a lash of high-pitched noise.

No, it was not difficult to locate Kim Finchwilliam Rudyard after all. For the small monkey, the ruff around its intelligent little face glowing silver, was screeching fit to pierce eardrums and shatter every single mirror and glass in the Rostrand’s atrium.

Several harried employees fluttered about carrying different items perhaps meant to appease the howling beast – or its master. Who sat, apparently unconcerned, in a large leather chair near one of the fireplaces, one of the day’s broadsheets open before his lean tanned face.

His cloth was sober and surpassingly fine, his waistcoat not disguising the taut trim frame beneath and his morning coat no doubt the finest the Burlington Estate could produce. Not for him the snappish newness of Savile Row; Rudyard’s taste for the most conservative of fashions was an involuntary comment upon what he no doubt fancied was a hidden desire. To be more of the Isle than Britannia Herself would have suited him royally, for all Rudyard was a young and bastard son.

A nose too hawk and cheekbones too broad, a skin deeply tanned by the Indus’s fierce sun – but not enough to be native of that dark-spiced country, no. Later he would be as seamed and rough as a nut, but for the time being, he was merely unusual. A gold ring very much like a Lascar’s adornment dangled from one earlobe, and his hair was too fair for the Indus and the wrong manner of dark for Britannia. He wore no moustache, and though his colour was not muddy as so many half-castes were, the exotic on him was a dangerous perfume.

She did not see his kukuhri-knife with its hilt of sinuous dark carven wood, but that did not mean he was not armed. Emma took her time approaching him, taking note of the various glances and exclamations from the Rostrand’s staff. Mikal touched her shoulder, a fleeting pressure, and she nodded.

Of course he is armed somehow. And you can tell he is of the Indus. I wonder if you will recognise more of him?

The question of how to deal with the screaming monkey was solved as soon as the creature sighted her. For it froze, its mouth wide open and sharp ivory teeth gleaming, its wide white-ringed eyes fixed on Emma.

No, not on her, but over her left shoulder. At Mikal.

Well, that is very interesting.

The sudden silence was almost shattering. The top edge of Rudyard’s broadsheet trembled slightly, and Emma came to a halt at a polite distance, eyeing the monkey. It was an odd little creature, and idly she wondered if Victrix would enjoy such a pet. The shrieking might even be a side benefit, to drown out her Consort’s gruff-grumbling displeasure. Did the expense of obtaining one balance the satisfaction to be had in its presentation?

Like Clare, she would have to postpone the question for further analysis. Her lips twitched slightly, and she dispelled the rising softness from her features, schooled them into an appropriately firm expression.

The broadsheet’s top edge quivered again. Rudyard inhaled, smoothly and slowly.

“Like old dark wine.” His baritone, lightly accented, was pleasant enough. “Sorcery’s spice, and the dust of the grave. Can it be?” The paper lowered and Rudyard’s odd hazel eyes, more gold than green, surveyed her from top to toe. Emma suffered it, the slight well-bred smile frozen to her face. “It can. Well, well.” He unfolded himself in a leisurely manner and rose, and rose – he was quite provokingly tall.

“Sir… sir.” A rotund man in an ill-cut suit and moist paws for hands bustled officiously into range. “Sir, that creature—”

“Is enticing indeed, but I doubt you would wish to lay hand upon it. A poison bloom is she.” Rudyard’s teeth, just as white as the monkey’s, gleamed in a smile, just their tips showing. “The female of her species is deadly.”

“As is the assault upon the eardrums from your charming companion,” Emma cut in, her tone light, arch, and amused. Let us see how easy you are to provoke this time. It should lighten my mood immensely to darken yours. “We shall require champagne, despite the hour, and a private room.”

Rudyard’s eyebrows lifted. You could see the echo of military bearing in his straight back, weight evenly balanced and his boots sharp-shining. He had been slated for a sepoy’s life before his sorcerous talent had manifested itself. “Business, then. Very well.”

“Sir…” The man – steward or head concierge, perhaps, with an incredibly harried air – next appealed to her. “Madam, that creature, the creature—”

She had very little patience for soothing him, though it was perhaps her female duty to do so. “I believe it is called a monkey, and it shall accompany us. Hurry along now, and prepare a private room. Champagne, and some light refreshment.”

The man paused, taking stock of her jewellery, her frock, the charming and very expensive hat perched on her curls. Emma suffered this second examination with much less grace than the first, smoothing one gloved wrist with her opposite fingers. “I am not accustomed to such bold treatment, Mr…?”

He actually took a step back, paling as he realised his survey of her person was not genteel at all, and further taking note of the quality of her dress and posture, as well as her accent. “Yes. Of course, madam. Happy to. If you will follow me? Harold, champagne! Mr Bruin, refreshments to the Rose Room! I do hope you shall find it accommodating, Mrs…?”

“Miss Bannon. Mikal, my card.” She held Rudyard’s gaze with her own. The monkey still had not made a sound, but now it scrambled up the tall man’s clothing and perched nimbly on his muscular shoulder. Its fur brushed his hair, and the contrast between the two textures was striking in its own way.

The concierge paled still further as he took in Mikal’s leanness as well, the Shield’s olive-green velvet coat and the knives worn openly at his hips, and finally realised – for he was no Clare, able to discern the facts of a situation at a glance – that Emma was not merely Quality but sorceress, and one powerful enough to require at least one Shield. Mikal produced a cream-coloured carte with a flick of his fingers and an unsettling, brilliant, white-toothed smile.

A curious crystalline silence, full of rustling, filled the coffee room. Rudyard finally took notice of her Shield as well, and his colour underwent almost as interesting a change as the hapless little hotelier’s.

The Indus sorcerer said something very fast and low, and – wonder of wonders – actually gave a half-bow, the monkey riding his shoulder with queer grace and managing to stay in place during the entire manoeuvre. It was the first time Emma had seen Rudyard perform such a gesture without a mocking edge, and she cocked her head, replaying the odd words.

No language I know, and not a language of Discipline. Some tongue of the Indus, perhaps?

Even more shocking was Mikal’s reply. Her Shield sounded faintly pleased, but the edge to his tone was quite as intriguing as the words themselves. At least he spoke good Englene. “You are forgiven, Kshatriya. But only if you do not displease her.”

“Your kind have no power on these shores. Nevertheless, I shall endeavour to be pleasant.” Rudyard’s eyes were suspiciously round, and he very carefully retreated, the broadsheet dropping from nerveless coppery fingers. When he blanched thus, he appeared paradoxically more Indus than Isle, and Emma’s pulse leapt before her training flexed itself, controlling her heartbeat and glandular functions so she could act without her body’s cries disturbing her concentration. “Come, Bannon.” Rudyard reached for his brow, as if to lift a hatbrim, and visibly collected himself. “Your servant, ma’am. In every way.”

It was a very good thing she was accustomed to the Indus sorcerer’s mercurial temper from their dual studies at the Collegia, for her jaw was suspiciously loose as the hotelier croaked a pale polite word and managed to bow and scrape the entire way to the Rose Room, whose only claim to roses was the overblown cabbagey herbage on the wallpaper. She observed a decorous pace, glad the coffee room was almost deserted, for this was a scene she would have rather avoided.

If Mikal’s presence would frighten the Chessmaster of Lahore, it would certainly make questioning him much less tiresome. And perhaps, she reflected, it was time to turn her attention to the matter of her Shield’s provenance.

She had put off that particular question long enough, and that it chose to rear its ugly head now was simply to be expected. The walk did her some good, therefore, since Emma Bannon’s hands were, for the first time in a good while, not completely steady.

“Morris? Is that all?” A flute of champagne, bolted as common water might be and followed with a draught from a silver-chased flask, had done wonders to steady the half-Indus. Still, he was rather pale, and his tone far less biting than usual. “What a relief.”

The monkey sat in his lap, shivering. Its fur bristled, grey sheen quivering with light that did not sting her eyes. Was it some manner of animus? She had read of the Indus sorceries of animal avatars, sometimes employed in place of a Shield to care for a sorcerer’s physical well-being. She had never actually witnessed one, and probing at the creature with her non-physical senses would be… impolite.

Besides, it might make the man more difficult to handle.

“A guilty conscience, Kim?” She held her own flute, but had not sipped of it yet. The bubbling liquid within trembled slightly, and she studied its fluid gleaming. It was a good pose, and would perhaps hide her discomfiture.

Rudyard did not like being addressed by his Christian name – as an Indus boy instead of a sir – and Emma used the resultant pause to marshal her thoughts and calculate her attack. Mikal was at the door, arms folded and his yellow eyes half-lidded, his manner perhaps a trifle too tense to be called his habitual calm.

Perhaps the half-Indus sorcerer discommoded him.

The Chessmaster was a fortress, certainly. But Rudyard could be breached with relative ease. The problem was retaining enough civility to use him as a resource later.

Rudyard’s face actually twisted, and he darted her a glance of such venom she was almost cheered to see it. “In the Great Lady’s service, Bannon, such a thing is not uncommon. If you possessed such a thing as a conscience, it might well be uneasy.”

She tilted her head a fraction. “Women are generally held to be creatures of sentiment and morality, albeit frail.” And your hatred of us is well known.

“You are not properly a woman, are you? Not with that over your shoulder, and a Prime’s will in you.” But his voice dropped, and the monkey, its clever face a mask, grabbed his shirt-front with one tiny hand and patted at his lean dark face. “Never mind. Morris’s working quarters are in Bermondsey. Faithgill Street. Twenty-seven, I believe.”

Just outside the Black Wark. A chill traced its fingers down Emma’s back, but her face gave no indication. She stored away the fascinating titbit of that over your shoulder, and continued studying her glass. “I see. And when was the last time you saw the good physicker genius?”

“When I returned from Keshmir, some weeks ago. He was engaged upon a commission that… overlapped with some of my concerns.”

Emma waited.

Rudyard sighed, shook his head. “A problem of some bloody tribesmen, among others, and how to make them docile.” Now he looked weary, lines appearing as he sagged briefly into the chair’s embrace. “Some benighted folk do not see the benefit of being under Britannia’s… protection.”

In other words, rather dirty business you don’t care to speak of, even if it is your duty to Queen and Empire. And this genius has some part in it. “I see.”

The half-Indus sorcerer’s head jerked up. He poured himself another generous measure of champagne. The monkey rode his lap with some aplomb, still silent. “How penetrating of you. Since you grasp all the complexities, let me add some advice, which you will no doubt ignore. Science for its own sake is as deadly as sorcery for its own end. The genius Morris, unprepossessing as he is, is a most dangerous man.”

Most intriguing. “What, pray tell, is his speciality?”

“She didn’t tell you?” His laugh was bitter as heavy day-old tea. The monkey hunched down, then half-turned, one beady little ancient eye fixed on Emma. “Poor Em, thrown into a snake-pit, blind. He’s a genius of Biology. His speciality is tiny things, and he was working with an Alterator named Copperpot – a cracked man, to be sure. That’s all I know. Go and see what you can accomplish, Bannon.”

“Thank you.” She set the alcohol aside, untasted. It was a shame, but her stomach had curdled. Passing too close to the Black Wark was not a thing to be desired, especially since Mehitabel’s temper was extraordinarily uncertain. Not that it had ever been sweet…

… but the wyrm had cause to hate her openly now. It mattered little, Emma would brave much worse than a young wyrmling’s ill-temper if necessary.

It was not quite craven to be glad that today, she did not have to, was it? Merely… wise.

“Good day, then, Mr Rudyard.” She twitched her skirt aside as she rose, and for once, the man leapt to his feet instead of languidly unfolding. His face had suffused itself with ugly colour, and the monkey scrambled to his shoulder, a squeak escaping it.

“It’s good day, is it? Something in return, Emma. What of that?” He pointed at Mikal with two spread fingers, rather as Valentinelli would avert ill-luck. “Do they know, at the Collegia?”

“My Shield was trained at the Collegia, sir. He is properly native born.” The cut was a trifle unjustified, but the idea of the Collegia perhaps investigating Mikal’s background more thoroughly was a pinch in a sensitive spot.

Shields were taken young, and some of them, found or caught in the slums rather as Emma herself had been, were of uncertain parentage. The Collegia became mother and father to them as well as to sorcery’s children, and their fleshly parents – if found – given remuneration. Some hopefuls even brought their babies to the Finding Festivals four times a year or to a sorcerer who could perhaps sponsor them – and add a shilling or two more to the recompense, ridding themselves of a mouth to feed in the process. “Are there none so well-trained in the Indus as to catch your fancy, that you must make eyes at mine?”

He took a step forward, and for a moment Emma thought Kim Rudyard might well strike her. His taste in lovers was easily indulged in some of the sinks of the Indus’s dust-hazed cities, if lovers was a proper term for it. The gold hoop at his ear sparked angrily, foreign charter symbols running golden under the metal’s surface, and her own necklace, a large oval cameo held to her throat by a black band of silver-threaded lace, warmed. The entire room rattled once, as if the hotel had forgotten it was stationary and had temporarily decided to become a train carriage.

It was, she thought, so easy to unsettle a man. Even a dangerous player in the great Game of Empire could be made to stumble in a simple verbal dance.

Rudyard recollected himself with a visible effort. Emma was not surprised to find Mikal’s warmth at her shoulder. “But,” she continued, silkily, “perhaps I misunderstand you?”

“I hope you do.” His white teeth showed in a smile that held no joy, a grimace of terribly amused pain. “Those his kind serve most often end envenomed. Do be careful. The Empire might hate to lose you.”

Is that a threat? “I have no intention of being lost.” She nodded, for that mannerly mark was all she would give him. If he was determined to be a rude beast, she was under no injunction to grant him more. “Thank you, Kim. You’re a dear, sweet boy.” The urge to pantomime a kiss at him rose and was ruthlessly quashed. “Good day.” She turned on her heel, and Mikal stared past her for a moment. Her Shield’s face wore a grinning grimace to match Rudyard’s, and for a moment her breath caught in her throat.

There was a soft thump behind her, and Kim Rudyard made a curious, hurt little sound. Emma glanced back when she had reached the door, and found that he had gone to his knees.

The limp body of the monkey lay against the Rose Room’s pink carpet. The thing lay on its side, its face turned towards her and its gaze, curiously filmed, had pinned itself to Mikal’s back. Was it dead, or merely stunned?

I did not do that. Perhaps it was not an animus after all. Foreign creatures did not take well to the Isle’s clime, and the thing’s screeching no doubt had fatigued it. She fought the urge to curl her fingers in – a lady did not go about with fists clenched. She kept her head high and swept along at her accustomed brisk pace. Her Shield, trailing in her wake, said nothing.

Rudyard had recognised something about Mikal. Her own research and suspicions, while not quite inconclusive, now had a new direction to turn.

But first she would find this errant genius of Biology, and return him to Britannia. And she realised, once she had exited the Rostrand’s glitter, that Rudyard had not mentioned Llewellyn.

Curious, and unsettling. It was turning out to be a dreadful day.

The bone-rattling ride in a hired hansom – for she had left her own carriage at home today, wishing to slip anonymously about – passed in almost complete silence, Emma staring thoughtfully out of the small window. Thankfully, it was Eli’s duty to ride with her, as Mikal ran the rooftop road. The new Shield, for she still thought of him as “new” despite the considerable time he had spent in her service, was laconic in nature, and did not disturb her reflections, well used to her moods by now.

Emma roused herself as the hansom slowed, the driver chirruping to his mud-coloured clockhorse. Hooves struck the cobbles, and she glanced at Eli, whose attention was seemingly taken by the hem of her dress.

“Eli.” As if reminding herself who he was. “How long has it been, now?”

“I couldn’t say, Prima. Two years? Three?”

“Unlike you to be so imprecise.”

“My former…” He halted. For all his dangerousness, he was still at bottom a quick-fingered ill-at-ease Liverpool bravo, who must have been a dark-eyed urchin on the Collegia’s training grounds.

“Dorian asked you that, implying he would rid himself of your service? Charming of him.” Emma sighed. “You are a good Shield, Eli, and much more suited to my temper than his. There’s no danger of that.” She chose her next words carefully. “I wish you to be very… observant, in the next few days.”

As usual, when there was a task to accomplish, he brightened. “Glove, or Recall?”

“Neither. Merely… observe.” I am about to do something I may regret. “It is Mikal. I wish your thoughts on him.”

“I have thoughts?” He sounded honestly puzzled, and a flash of irritation boiled through her. But then he nodded, a curious expression crossing his almost-handsome face. “I shall observe him, Prima. Most closely.”

“But without—”

“Yes. I am not quite thick-headed, though I am no mentath.”

“I am no mentath either, Eli. We are in good company. Thank you.”

He darted her a bright glance, and for a moment she wondered if he knew the nature of the… relations between Mikal and herself. And if he thought it likely she sought to replace Mikal in those particular relations with a more tractable Shield. Some of Emma’s peers delighted in setting their complement of guards at each other in such a fashion, forcing them to vie for position within the closed circle of sorcerer and those who protected.

I am Prime. It is beneath me to act in such a fashion. Even though other Primes did not have the same… reluctance.

The hansom jolted to a stop and Emma alighted, Eli’s hand warm and steady through her glove. Mikal appeared as the driver, a lean iron-spined old man in a tattered royal-blue coat and a voluminous red and yellow knitted scarf, popped the whip smartly over the clockhorse’s dull flanks and drove his contraption away with a clatter and a grinding neigh of protest. The clockhorse was due for an oilbath, and Emma devoutly hoped the driver would give the poor creature one sooner rather than later.

To the west, a colossal lifting smudge was the perpetual cinderfall of the Black Wark. Daylight was the best time to enter that region of Londinium, but Emma was still secretly grateful she did not have to.

Twenty-seven Faithgill was a large slumping building, the district here sparsely populated due to the titanic stink from the Leather Market and the slaughteryards. Nearer the Wark, the clockhorse pens, where equine flesh was married to tireless metal in service to industry, gave out its own stench of coppery blood, terror, and the smokegloss of Alterative sorcery. The warehouses here would be full of spare bits for mechanisterum, to be hauled into Southwark and given function before being shipped out, gleaming proudly, down the Themis to the sea.

No few of the vast boxlike structures would be stuffed with meat laid under slowly unravelling sealcharm, dripping ice and great fans wedded to cool charms to keep the interior of such buildings frigid. Catmeat and poor viands, true, but Emma always wondered how many of Londinium’s finest ate this un-veal, unknowing. It was a good thing her own Cook was a canny marketer… and happy in her employ.

Mikal’s face was a thundercloud, but she dared not acknowledge it. Instead, she gazed upon the rotting two-storey edifice, its brick crumbling and its timbers slumping dispiritedly. It looked to have been built in the time of Henry the Wifekiller, a vessel of Britannia who had paradoxically hated women almost as much as Kim Rudyard. Henry had also hated the Church, and had garnered the support of sorcery’s children – even the females – by expelling the worst of the Inquisition from the Isle’s shores along with the scarlet and black plague of Popish filth.

“I rather hope he is at home,” she remarked, merely to break the tension. The sky was a mass of yellow cloud, Londinium’s coal-breath holding the city under a lens. Perhaps after Tideturn it would rain. “Though it seems unlikely.”

Both Shields gave her astonished glances. She shook her head, her curls bouncing against her ears and her peridot earrings swinging, a reassuring weight. “Never mind. Mikal, if you please. Eli, with me.”

Her caution was almost useless. The inside of the warehouse consisted of two rooms – Morris’s living quarters were tucked behind a sagging partition, spare as a monk’s. A pallet, a small empty table that might have served as a desk or bedside table, and a single easy-chair in some hideous moth-eaten black fabric, and that was all. No wardrobe, no washbasin.

No means of storing food.

The workroom bore evidence of being lived in, but it was also full of disorder. Smashed glass smeared with various crusted substances lay everywhere, corroded brass fittings broken in piles on the floor, and scorching over everything as if a cleansing fire had been attempted. Emma wrinkled her nose at the stench. How had anyone breathed in here? More glass crunched like silver bones underfoot, and she did not bother to tell the Shields to move cautiously.

Later, she wondered if she should have. But she was too occupied with the new attention Eli was paying Mikal, and the deepening ill temper Mikal was barely – but thoroughly – keeping in check.

It was, indeed, a dreadful afternoon.