The Red Plague Affair

Chapter Twelve Led to Regret

Timothy Copperpot, Master Alterator and possessor of a very fine flat overlooking Canthill Square, was at home. Not only that, but he welcomed their visit with almost unbecoming enthusiasm. His narrow, nervous face bore a rather startling resemblance to a terrier’s, since his whiskers were cut to resemble that animal’s headshape.

“I say! Delighted! Charmed!” He was not sweating, and did not seem in the least put out that they had arrived unannounced. “Was just about to leave for the workshop, but would much rather a visit with another of the ætheric brethren. Tea? Something stronger?”

“Tea would be lovely, thank you.” This cannot be so simple.

He had two Shields – even a low-level Alterator would need them for handling overflow if an Alteration went wrong or began twisting, the ætheric charge warping under concentrated irrationality. The idea of marrying flesh to metal was faintly distasteful, even if Emma could see the financial benefits available to those who could master the requisite Transubstantiation exercises. And Copperpot was no back-alley metalmonger; his cloth was fine and his flat was a wide, airy, pleasant one, on the third floor. His Shields – one dark, one fair – were neatly dressed, and they both eyed Mikal with a fair amount of apprehension.

Which meant they ignored Valentinelli, since the Neapolitan did quite a lovely job of slouching along behind Mr Clare, whose mournful basset face had brightened considerably as he glanced about the sitting room.

The curtains were pulled back, the coal fire built up and quite pleasant, the wallpaper a soothing blue and the wainscoting clean. Copperpot’s taste ran to brass and a touch or two of the Indus, and Emma’s gorge rose hotly, her breakfast staging a revolt. She quelled it with an effort, taking the seat Copperpot indicated with a smile and murmured thanks.

“Harry, old boy, do bring some tea, and the savouries! Had a spot of brekkie, of course, but never say no to more.” The Alterator’s delight seemed entirely unfeigned; to Sight he was a cheerful bubbling of low red, tang-tasting of the molten metal he charmed on a daily basis. The blond Shield glanced again at Mikal and hurried out of the room. Valentinelli hovered behind Clare, the very picture of a solicitous manservant to a not-quite-elderly-but-no-longer-young gent.

“Quite. I appreciate your hospitality.” She tilted her head slightly as Clare settled in an easy-chair, Copperpot dropping into what must be his accustomed seat near the grate. “I do beg your pardon for the impoliteness, but I must come straight to the point.”

“Oh, please do, then. Happy to help in any way, Prima! You have some work that needs doing, a spot of Alteration, or…?”

“I wish it were so simple. I must ask you about a certain genius, a physicker, Mr John Morris…” She left it open-ended. His response would tell her a great deal.

“Morrie? Oh, yes. Bit of a prickly chap. Had me make him lovely bits of metal and glass. Canisters, according to a set of drawings. Wonderful things, really. Tricky work, had to stand a great deal of pressure inside without leaking. Did he recommend me?”

You poor man. “He did, very highly.” She settled her hands carefully in her lap. The dark Shield was not watching her. His attention was wholly occupied with Mikal. Clare leaned forward, his narrow nostrils flaring as his gaze roved every surface in the room. “How is his holiday progressing?”

“Saw him off to Dover this morning, matter of fact. A Continental tour, just the thing for his nerves. Rather raw, poor Morrie.”

Dover? “He works too hard,” she murmured. “Dover? I thought he was to be in town longer.”

“No, no, he’d finished his masterpiece, he said. Saw him off at the station; made certain the canisters were loaded correctly and all. Taking two of them along, to show the Crowned Heads of Europe. Quite the thing, maybe even a patent!”

“Your maker’s mark on the brass fittings,” Clare interjected, suddenly. “The crowned cauldron.”

“Too right!” The terrier-man beamed with pride. His fingertips rubbed together, and ætheric sparks crackled. “You’ve seen them, then? Pressurised canisters. A mixture of fluid and air, made into a fine mist – but it couldn’t be steam. It couldn’t be heated. Quite a puzzle, but Copperpot never gives up.” He waved one finger, wagging as if to nag an invisible child. “I told him, I would make him a thousand once we found the right design!”

“Did you?” Clare leaned forward, and Emma could have cheerfully cursed him. She did not wish the quarry alerted just yet.

“No. Merely twelve, but the right design! Two sent overseas, with him. He said he’d show the remaining ten in Londinium, an Exhibition, he said, but I don’t know…” Copperpot’s smile faltered. He glanced nervously at Emma. “I say, what is it you’re after, Prima? More than willing to help, but—”

“Master Sorcerer Copperpot.” Emma’s spine was rigid. An onlooker would not have been able to tell how her heart, traitorous thing that it was, had begun to ache. The chunk of amber at her throat warmed. “I regret this, I truly do.”

Mikal moved. The dark Shield went down with the greenwood crack of a neck breaking, a sound that never failed to make Emma’s heart cringe within her. Clare let out a sharp yell, Valentinelli was a blur of motion, and in short order the blond Shield, alerted too late, was down on the carpeting with Mikal’s fingers at his throat. He had burst through the door, no doubt to save his master – who sat very still, with the edge of a knifeblade to his carotid and Valentinelli breathing in his ear.

“Bastarde,” the Neapolitan whispered. “Move, or cast one of your filthy sorceries, I slit your throat.”

“I advise you to believe him.” Emma rose. Her skirts made a low sweet sound, and the curtains, fluttering, closed themselves without the benefit of hands. A Master Sorcerer was no match for a Prime, but still, caution was required. And the morning’s light should not shine on this work. The sudden gloom was a balm to her sensitised eyes. “Now, Timothy – may I address you as such? Thank you. Timothy, Mr Clare and I require you to be absolutely truthful. And if you are absolutely truthful, you will survive this encounter.”

It pained her to lie, but the man’s face had turned cheesy-pale. He would be of absolutely no use if he knew the likely outcome of the morning’s visit.

Britannia wished Morris taken alive, but she had said nothing about this man. And Emma was of the opinion that leaving behind anyone to be questioned was rather a bad idea at this juncture. It was necessary, she reminded herself, because she did not know if Kim Rudyard had left for his own part of the globe… or if he was still in Londinium, with a plan that hinged on some canisters and a certain physicker.

Clare glanced at her, but he did not, thank God, give voice to his plain certainty that she was being misleading.

“Mr Clare?” She kept her tone level. “Please question him thoroughly. I hope you don’t mind if I interject every so often? Oh, but before you begin, one small thing…”

Mikal’s fingers clenched. The crunch of cartilage collapsing was very loud in the hush. Emma’s low hummed note caught the sound, wrapping the flat in a smothering veil.

It wouldn’t do to have the neighbours inconvenienced.

The dark Shield suffocated, his heels drumming the floor, and Mikal glanced up. His gaze, yellow as the Ganges-dust of Indus, met hers.

Now that she had the attention of every man in the room, the business could begin. “What time did Mr Morris leave for Dover? And do tell me, what ship was he to board?”

Copperpot’s eyes rolled. He was sweating now, and Valentinelli’s hand was steady. The Neapolitan watched her too, his smile as tender as a lover’s.

Ludo enjoyed this sort of thing far more than was quite right.

Timothy did tell them all he knew – which was quite a bit more than she had expected. And quite possibly, far more than the Alterator knew he knew. Clare grew paler and more agitated with each raft of seemingly innocuous or hopelessly complex questions, and Copperpot’s visible hope that he would leave this flat later whole and breathing was uncomfortable to witness.

If you had a conscience, Bannon, it might well be uneasy. Rudyard, damn him, had been utterly correct.

Clare looked rather green. His glance studiously avoided the stained armchair before the low-burning coal in the grate. “Are you familiar with the Pathogenic Theory?”

“Arrange it… yes, that will do.” Emma shook her head. The silence cloaking the flat was well-laid; she checked its charter knots one more time, humming a sustained note that turned into the burring un-noise of live sorcery as she tweaked its contours, delicately, rather as she would smooth a dress’s wayward fold. “No. I am not familiar, Clare.”

“Illness – or at least, some illnesses… good God, man, did you have to do that to his hands?” The mentath shifted uncomfortably, tugging at his jacket and reaching for his pocket. His fingers brushed the material, then returned to the chair arms.

“When Ludo asks, he tell the truth.” The Neapolitan settled the corpse’s legs. “Ask la strega, she know.”

“I am rather occupied at the moment.” Emma sighed. Three bodies; she would have to expend rather more ætheric force than she liked tidying this mess up. “Do go on, Clare. Pathogenic theory? Is this Science?” For if it were a branch of sorcery, we would not be discussing it thus.

“There are beings invisible to the naked eye that may cause some illnesses. Science has suspected for a great while, but required proof – optics, and in particular, a certain Dutchman gave us the means of—”

“Do not become distracted. Perhaps you should wait in the carriage.” There was rather a large bloodstain. “Put the Shields… yes, thank you, Mikal.”

Mikal crouched easily over the bodies, his hands loose but his jaw tight. He did not question, but he was far too tense for her to believe the danger had passed.

“I am not distracted. Was it truly necessary, Miss Bannon?”

Damn the man. “Was Eli’s death necessary, sir? Do not ask such silly, useless questions.” The words had altogether far more snap than she was accustomed to hearing in her own voice. “We are dealing with some manner of poison, in canisters that will spray it in a fine mist. It must have been a virulent one.”

“Perhaps not poison. The trouble taken to keep the temperature of the mist so rigidly controlled rather speaks against it. And poison does not spread. It is not a genius of Biology’s likely method.” As well as green, the mentath was decidedly pale. “Tiny organisms, Miss Bannon, are a possibility. The canisters are only a first step. No doubt the mist produced, drawn into the lungs… It would make precious little sense unless this Morris was certain the infection would spread.”

Emma’s hands dropped. She regarded him, the curious sensation of clicking inside her head as a piece of the puzzle fitted into place turning her to ice.

Small things, Rudyard had sneered. Go and see what you can find.

“Dear God. A weapon…” She halted herself with an effort. Her lips were numb. In the closely packed streets of Londinium, such an infection could spread with hellish speed. And if its result was what Eli had suffered… “Eli… how…?”

“The crusted substance – introduced under the skin through the cut on his hand. There is much I can only surmise.” Clare could not look away from the blood-drenched armchair. Even when Valentinelli hefted it with a grunt and dragged it to the arranged bodies, the mentath’s blue gaze followed. “The canisters are no doubt already placed in public areas, in order to maximise the initial exposure.” He blinked as the coal fire shifted, ash falling with a whisper. “And Eli had some few hours before he evinced symptoms. The first cases could be wandering the streets now. And infecting others.”

“While the good physicker hies himself to the Continent and to whatever paymaster has turned him.” D—n the man. Oh, I shall give him an accounting soon enough. A right round one, too. And Rudyard. No matter how he hates me, this is quite beyond.

It almost, she thought, bordered on the treacherous. Almost, and yet it was not in the Chessmaster’s usual vein. This physicker genius was canny enough to hide his intent from Rudyard, if he had laid his plans with such care.

Clare’s forehead furrowed. “I do not know if he has been turned. It seems unlikely.”

She had to remind herself that her mentath did not say such things lightly, and that he was in all likelihood correct when he bothered to venture such an opinion. “Why?”

“To turn a man against his own country requires some manner of frustration, and Morris does not seem frustrated. Rather, he seems to be following a very logical path to its inevitable conclusion. He has made somewhat of a discovery and is testing it in grand fashion. Really, it is a magnificent and elegant—” He took note of her expression, and halted. “Ah, well. Yes. Clearly he cannot be allowed to proceed. But I do not find much evidence for treachery. Merely misguided genius.”

“Yes. I was warned of that.” When next I see dear old Kim, I shall not be polite at all. First his monkey, if it still lives, then him. “Mr Clare, can you find those canisters?”

“The sorcerer… yes, he has given me some ideas. Unknowing, of course.”

“And discern the exact nature of this threat, poison or otherwise?” Did Britannia, Emma wondered, know the shape and danger of this weapon? The ruling spirit was ancient and wise, but Victrix was headstrong, and Science was new. Or was this a pet project of some minister gone astray?

I do not know nearly enough of the roots of this matter. She took a deep breath, seeking to still her quickening pulse and banish the prickle of sweat under her arms and against the curve of her lower back.

“I believe I may.” He even sounded certain, thank goodness.

“Very well, then. I shall leave that in your capable hands.”

“And meanwhile?”

Why do you ask, sir? “I shall be travelling. The man must be stopped.”

“And brought to the Crown’s justice?”

“Possibly.” She did not sound convinced, even to herself. “He may be too useful for justice, Mr Clare.” No matter how I long to watch him die as my Shield did.

She was rather becoming entrenched in the habit of lying to herself, was she not? It was an awkward habit for a Prime.

Awkward, and dangerous.

“As we are?” Thoughtfully, as he slowly rose. “Or am I?”

For a moment, she could not believe she had heard such a question. Her temper almost snapped. I am standing over a pile of corpses, Archibald. Now may not be the proper time to accuse me of plotting your murder. “If you are asking whether I would—”

“No. I do not think you would. Forgive me, Emma.”

Too late. It is said. The pain in her chest would not cease. And were you a danger to Britannia, I may well be led to regret. “Certainly. Take the carriage, and Ludovico. Find those blasted canisters. And do be careful. For whatever you may think, sir, I am most loath to lose you.”

Perhaps Clare would have replied, but Emma’s attention turned inward, and threads of ætheric force boiled through her fingers. If she concentrated on the demands of the task before her, she could easily push away the jabbing beneath her ribs. It was perhaps merely her corset. A mentath’s judgement should not sting so – he was only a man, after all.

Oh, Sorceress Prime, lying to yourself is very bad form indeed.