The Red Plague Affair

Chapter Twenty-Five A Congress of War

The following morning began rather inauspiciously. “What in God’s name is happening here?” Miss Bannon all-but-barked, momentarily forgetting her usual well-bred tones.

Clare blinked. He had laid his head down on the desk for a bare moment, merely to rest. The stiffness in his back and neck, as well as the uncomfortable crust about his eyes, told him he had instead slept, and quite deeply too.

Valentinelli, his pallet spread near the workroom door, sheepishly slipped a knife back into his sleeve and yawned hugely, stretching. One of his hands almost touched the thunderstruck sorceress’s skirts, and she twitched the black silk of mourning away from his fingers reflexively. She was attired as smartly as ever, despite the mourning, and her jewellery – a torc of bronze ringing her slim throat, rings of mellow gold on each finger, her earrings long daggers of jet – rang and crackled with golden charter symbols. Her small arms were full of broadsheets, the ink on them still fresh enough for its odour to penetrate the scorch-throat reek of live experimentation.

Vance had, by all appearances, gone to sleep propped in a corner, very much as an Ægyptian mummy himself. He twitched into wakefulness and caught himself, his gaze distressingly sharp as soon as he rubbed at his eyes. All three men were covered with dust and dirt, the effluvium of a grave below Londinium’s surface, and perhaps smelled just as bad as the experiments.

Clare’s brow was unbecomingly damp. He coughed, and caught his pen, which threatened to skitter from the desk’s cluttered surface. The nib was crusted with dried ink. “I say,” he managed, “good heavens. I must have slept.”

“There is news.” Miss Bannon swept past Valentinelli, and the door moved a fraction behind her, but did not close. “Morris is dead, but his end has been achieved. The broadsheets are full of a mysterious illness spreading with most unseemly haste in the lower quarters of town. What happened?”

“Morris? Dead?” Vance took two steps away from the wall and halted, his eyes narrowing. “How? When?”

The look Miss Bannon cast at the criminal mentath was chilling in its severity. “Good morning, sir. I do not believe I have had the pleasure.” Her tone announced it was a dubious pleasure at best, and her entire demeanour was of the frostiest vintage. “Archibald?”

“Ah. Yes.” He cleared his throat again. This should be quite interesting. “Miss Bannon, may I present Dr Francis Vance? Dr Vance, our hostess, Miss Bannon.”

Clare had very little time to savour Miss Bannon’s momentary silence. Vance bowed and his right hand moved as if to lift his hat, forgetting that he wore none. “I am extremely pleased to be introduced, Miss Bannon. Mr Clare thinks very highly of you, and your hospitality is simply incredible.”

Her response – studying him for a few long moments, from top to toe – lacked nothing in insouciance. “He thinks rather highly of you as well, sir.” Her tone managed to express that she did not share such estimation or optimism, and she returned her attention to Clare’s quarter with a dark look that promised trouble later. “So. Well. Mr Clare?”

He almost winced. Oh, dear. “Suffice to say we are brothers-in-arms in this affair, dear Bannon. The situation is… complex. In the lower quarters, you say? Spread of an illness?”

“They are calling it a rosy miasma, and it is spreading quickly enough to make the broadsheets promise another edition at midday. Clare, is it too much to ask for you to grant me an explanation?”

“Not at all. But… breakfast. We worked very late last night. I found the original source of Morris’s plague. Tell me, what did he die of?”

She all but stamped her tiny foot. “The same poison that killed my Shield. Or is it an illness? This Pathologic Theory of yours? Really, sir, I do require some information at this juncture!”

It rather irked Miss Bannon to be the less-informed of their pairing, Clare thought. Surely it was not quite logical to feel so secretly pleased at the notion. “Breakfast, Miss Bannon. I do not have much of an appetite, but it shall serve as a congress of war. The situation is worse than you may have ever dreamed.”

“Lovely.” She addressed the ceiling in injured tones. “And now he calls my imagination into question. Ludo, if you do not put that knife away again, I shall be outright vexed with you. Very well, gentlemen. I expect to see you in the breakfast room soon. Already I have had a request from the Crown for some manner of further explanation, one I cannot give until you share your tidings.” Another venomous glance darted at Dr Vance – who looked rather amused again, dash it all – and she spun smartly, twitched her skirt away from Valentinelli again while the assassin stared at her and whistled a long low note, and her retreating footsteps were crackling little snaps of frustrated authority.

Silence fell among the men as they listened to her negotiate the stairs.

“Well.” Vance rubbed his fingers together. “A most winning creature, old man, and you have been keeping her all to yourself.”

“She singe your fingers, bastarde.” Valentinelli gained his feet in a catlike lunge. He had, as usual, slept in his boots. “And Ludovico cut them off.”

“You’re quite a suitor, sir.” Vance’s laugh carried a note of calculated disdain, and Clare rubbed at his damp forehead, where a distressing headache was threatening. “Does your wife know?”

Damn the man. Clare gained his feet, shoving the uncomfortable wooden chair back, and managed – just barely – to arrive in Valentinelli’s way as the Neapolitan leapt for the criminal mentath, whose laugh could have been carved from ice. “None of that!” Clare cried, locking Ludovico’s wrist and twisting, the knife clattering on the stone floor and his weight driving the assassin back a few critical steps. “None of that, Ludo, the man is simply baiting you! Pray do not make it easier!”

“Turn him loose, Clare.” Vance stood at ease, but with his hands held oddly. Some manner of fighting skill, though Clare did not have enough time to do more than glimpse it, for holding Ludovico back took all his strength and a goodly portion of guile.

Do not force me to harm you. But he could not say it.

Ludovico subsided, though he was sweating, and his close-set eyes were hot with rage. He spoke very low in his Calabrian dialect, and there was no mistaking the import of the words – or their meaning. Not even a threat, merely a promise of retribution.

“Enough.” Clare cleared his throat again. He rather wished for a spot of tea to ease the scratching. It would not ease the situation to spit, though. “I shall have Miss Bannon separate you, if you cannot behave as gentlemen. We have much more pressing problems, and after this affair is concluded you may duel each other with pistols in Treyvasan Gardens for all I care. But for now, cease this foolishness.”

He held no great expectation of soothing either of them, but apparently his invocation of satisfaction at a later point was enough. Vance stepped back, almost mincingly, and Valentinelli shook himself free of Clare’s grip, stamping for the door. His footsteps were nowhere near as light or dainty as Miss Bannon’s, and they vanished halfway up, as if he had recalled his ability to move silently.

Clare let out a sigh. His brow was really quite moist, and sweat had gathered under his arms as well. Exertion was not a marvellous idea so soon in the morning, and his bones reminded him that he was decidedly not of tender enough vintage to sleep in a chair. “That was ill-done,” he remarked, mildly enough. “His possible marriage is rather a sensitive subject.”

“They always are. And it is not possible; he had a wife once. You should have deduced as much.” Vance, supremely unconcerned, set about adjusting his jacket. “Breakfast, you say? And I hate to be gauche, but a watercloset would do me a world of good, old chap.”

Clare throttled the annoyance rising in his chest and nodded, sharply. “Do come this way, sir. I believe some shift may be made for you.” His pause was not entirely for effect, for a novel idea had occurred to him. “And do be careful. This is a sorceress’s house, and Miss Bannon’s temper is… uncertain, with strangers.”

Perhaps it would make the damnable man behave. Though Clare, wiping at his forehead and cheeks with a slight grimace, was not hopeful.

Clare’s appetite had deserted him entirely, for once. He had suitably freshened himself and changed his clothes, but his back still cramped, reminding him of its unhappiness. His joints had joined the chorus, and the broadsheets, spread over a small table brought into the too-bright breakfast room, did not help.

Morris had done his work well. “The remaining two canisters?”

“Disappeared. Either Copperpot was not truthful, or Mr Morris was not quite honest with the particulars.” Miss Bannon’s colour was fine this morning, but her small white teeth worrying at her lower lip betrayed her anxiety. “I rather think the latter, if only because of Ludo’s fine work.”

Clare’s stomach twisted afresh. He sipped his tea, hoping to calm his digestion, and turned a page. The ink stained his fingers, but he could not find the heart to be even fractionally annoyed. “The ones left in Londinium are now useless. The genie, as Dr Vance remarked, has left the lamp.”

“Ah, yes. Dr Vance.” There was a line between Miss Bannon’s dark eyebrows. “This is a tale I am most interested in hearing, Clare. He is in my house.”

“I don’t suppose there is a method for keeping him here?” Clare blinked rapidly, several times. The words on the pages refused to cohere for a moment.

“I have already attended to that, Archibald.” Miss Bannon glanced across the empty breakfast room as Mikal appeared, his tidy dark hair dewed with fine droplets of Londinium moisture. “Any news?”

“No further dispatches from the Palace.” Mikal’s lean face was not grave, but it was close. “The borders of the house are secure, Prima.”

“Very good. Ludo?”

“At his toilette.” Grim amusement touched Mikal’s mouth, turning the straight line into a slight curve at its corners. “So is our other guest. When shall I kill him?”

“No need for that!” Clare interjected, hastily. “He has a steady pair of hands, and is familiar with the Theory. He will be most useful, and remanding him to Her Majesty’s justice at the end of this affair—”

“—will be quite enough to salve your tender conscience?” Miss Bannon’s expression was, for once, unreadable. She nodded, and Mikal drifted across the room to fetch her a breakfast plate. The sorceress, settled in her usual chair at the table she shared with Clare when he partook of her hospitality, shook the ringlets over her ears precisely once. “I am gladdened to hear it. But my question remains: what the devil is he doing here?”

“I am not quite certain.” Clare forced his faculties to the task at hand, scanning columns of fine print. “Bermondsey, yes. Whitchapel, yes. Lambeth.” He noted Miss Bannon’s slight movement, slipped the notation into the mental bureau holding her particulars, and continued. “Cripplegate, yes. St Giles. The Strand – why there, I wonder? Ah yes, the Saint-Simonroithe, Morris would of course know the history. And the docks; dear God, it will spread like wildfire. It is spreading like wildfire.” He exhaled, heavily. “How did he die, Miss Bannon?”

“Of his own creation, sir. I brought him to the Queen’s presence; he expired very shortly afterwards.” She accepted the plate – two bangers, fruit, and one of Cook’s lovely scones – with a nod, and Mikal set to work loading another. “It was unpleasant. Convulsions, all manner of blood.”

Clare shut his eyes. For a moment, the idea of swooning appeared marvellously comforting. He was so bloody tired. “He died in the Queen’s presence? You took him before Britannia?”

“Of course.” Puzzled, she stared at him through the fragrant steam wafting up from her scone. “You’ve gone quite pale.”

“Perhaps Britannia will protect her vessel.” Clare’s lips were suspiciously numb. He gathered himself afresh. “This illness is incredibly communicable, Miss Bannon. The danger is quite real.”

“Communicative?” It was her turn to pale as she dropped her dark gaze to her plate. “Infectious? Very?”

“Yes. Very. Who else was in the Presence?”

“A few personages,” she admitted. “None I care overmuch for.” Quite decidedly, she turned her attention to her breakfast and began calmly to consume it. “I am still unclear on the exact dimensions of this threat, Archibald. You are to have breakfast and explain. I cannot fend off the Crown’s requests for information for very long.”

It was, he reflected, quite kind of Miss Bannon that she did not consider aloud dragging him and Vance into Britannia’s presence to give an account of the entire mess. “We have found the original source of the illness. Have you studied History, Miss Bannon?”

“My education, sir, was the best the Collegia could provide.” But there was no sharpness to her tone. “And I have taken steps to continue it. What part of History’s grand sweep do you refer to?”

“Sixteen sixty-six. The Great Plague.” And during it, Londinium burned.

The silence that fell was extraordinary. Miss Bannon laid her implements down and picked up her teacup, her smallest finger held just so. Mikal settled himself in his usual chair as well, his plate heaped so high it was a wonder the china did not groan in pain.

“A rather dreadful time,” she finally observed, taking a small mannerly sip.

“Rather. And we are about to suffer it again, unless Science – in the form of Dr Vance and myself – can effect some miracle of cure. A serum may be possible, if we are correct.”

“And if you are not?”

The door opened and Vance appeared, freshly combed, new linens – charm-measured, no doubt, by the redoubtable Finch and his men – taken advantage of, and his eyes peculiarly dark with some manner of emotion Clare found difficult to discern.

“If we are not,” Vance said, “then, Miss Bannon, God help Londinium, and the rest of the globe. Your hospitality is most wonderful, though your servants are peculiarly resistant to any manner of charm or politeness.”

Miss Bannon blinked. “They do not waste such things on those… visitors… I have expressed an aversion to,” she replied mildly. “Do come and have breakfast, sir. And mind the silver.”

“I am an artist of crime, madam. Not a common thief.” He straightened his jacket sleeves and stepped into the room, glancing about him with much interest. “Your Neapolitan is close behind me, old chap. Still in a bit of a temper.”

When is he not, nowadays? “Do try not to come to blows at the breakfast table. Our hostess rather frowns upon such things.” Clare sighed, heavily, and returned his attention to the broadsheets. Eating was out of the question, at least for him.

“Good heavens.” Miss Bannon took another mannerly sip of tea. “Is there anyone in this house you have not annoyed, Vance?”

It was, Clare rather thought, a declaration of war. Vance apparently chose not to register it as such. “Mr Clare, perhaps. And I’m sure there is a servant or two who has not seen me. What news, old chum?”

I grow weary of the familiarity of your address. But Clare set aside the irritation. It served no purpose. “Mr Morris fell victim to his own creation, so we are forced to a process of experimentation. Any of his papers or effects detailing his own experiments – Bannon, I don’t suppose we could lay hands on them?”

“I have a faint idea where they may be found.” Miss Bannon’s tone chilled slightly. “I hope the one likely to possess them has not left Englene’s shores, or I shall be vexed with travel as well. I require as much information as you can give me about the nature of this illness. Perhaps it may yet be Mended.”

“If so, I shall be glad of it.” Clare closed The Times and opened the Courier, a most disreputable rag notable for the poor quality of its paper, the hideous shape of its typography, and its absolute accuracy in detailing the grievances of the lower classes. “For I must confess, Bannon, I am not sanguine in the least.”